Metamorphosis

WRITERS BLOC

Metamorphosis

October 2021

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Vol. 2 [1 ]

Contents Editor’s Note ... 4 Meet the Team ... 6 Embracing Inevitable Change by Dhivhani Mulaudzi ... 8 A Tasteful Confession by Tanatswa Chagonda ... 10 Eden by Brianna Violet ... 12 Untitled by Simikiwe Kuali ... 13 Radical Realisations by Alice-Jane Marais ... 14 Remember Me by Julian Yeates ... 17 Change by Thato-Baholo Mangoali ... 19 Help Me See the Light by Markan Nkwazi ... 20 The Shadow of Death is Time by Markan Nkwazi ... 21 Metamorphasis, Change & Transformation by Motsheudi Sekgopo ... 24

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Writers Bloc

Page 26 ... Jigsaw by Yuvthi Misser 28 ... Divine Self by Kevala Rungopal 32 ... A Poem About Anxiety & Depression by Nhlanhla Mkhutle 34 ... Seeing is Believing by Nhlanhla Mkhutle 36 ... Coffee Contemplations by Nqobani Dabengwa 38 ... Prayers of Eve by Brianna Violet 40 ... A South African Story by Zizikazi Njokweni 43 ... Chrysalis by Nia Van Niekerk 46 ... An Ode to My Phoenix by Nqobani Dabengwa 48 ... Dreamer’s Dawn by Tyron Stewart 50 ... Carved in Stone by Dylan Scott 54 ... Acknowledgments

Metamorphosis

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I

Editor’s Note

By Julian Yeates & Kevala Rungopal

n everything we do, in everything we are, there is metamorphosis. The very essence of what it means to be human is rooted in the concept of change. From evolution to aging, we are constantly changing and transforming both physically and mentally. With each new idea, philosophy, and sensation that we encounter, billions of synapses activate different patterns of thought that influence us at our very core. When connecting this ideology to external factors, such as the COVID-19 pandemic, even more changes occurred, and then too, at rapid speed. And as a human race, we were not prepared for that. Coupled with the effects of the pandemic and the nationwide lockdown, various shifts and changes were felt and made.

From our collective stasis of uncertainty to finding alternate, sanitised lifestyles, we have undergone a series of individual transformations. We have each faced our own personal hardships, trials and tribulations, and we ought to celebrate the progress we have made.

The rise in mental illness, the climate crisis and evolving technology has transformed our understanding of ourselves and our environment. Our self-awareness and our need for change in so many facets of life are evident now more than ever. We are in the midst of change as we speak, with no concrete end in sight.

This is both daunting and full of potential.

Metamorphosis is a necessary transformation that certain creatures need to undergo in order to survive.

The caterpillar needs to envelop itself in a cocoon, the tadpole slowly develops limbs and evolves into a frog. So, too, do we need to continuously adapt to our ever changing environment and self-conception.

The pain of change is temporary, the reward in growth is everlasting.

This anthology is dedicated to those feelings of change, metamorphosis, and transformation. The various pieces in this edition reflect the ever-changing nature of what it means to be human. While there is no definite answer to such a question, in an attempt to answer it, we hope this anthology adequately captures this remarkable time in history that showcases our strength and resilience within these unpredictable times.

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Writers Bloc

Photographer: Debby Hudson

Metamorphosis

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MEET THE TEAM INK SOCIETY 6

Kevala Rungopal CHAIRPERSON

Julian Yeates VICE CHAIRPERSON & SOCIAL MEDIA

Role: Society leader who liases between university leaders and society members. Chairperson guides committee members in their portfolio, delegates tasks and creates yearly plans for the society.

Role: Second-in-charge who facilitates the Chairperson run the society, plan events and communicate with members.

The role of the Social Media Rep is to generate content to post on platforms like Instagram and Facebook in order to gain more followers and members for the society.

Favourite genres: Psychological thriller & Transnationalism.

“I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train.”

- Oscar Wilde

Favourite genre: Short stories.

“Everything in life is writable, if you have the outgoing guts to do it. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.”

- Sylvia Plath

Writers Bloc

Dylan Aiston SECRETARY

Daniel Soverall TREASURER

Markan Andreas Nkhwazi COMMUNITY ENGAGEMENT

Role: Head of administration.

The Secretary facilitates communication between the society members and the committee. Taking minutes, sending e-mails and the general organisation of the society are the Secretary’s main aims.

Role: Head of Finance.

The Treasurer ensures that the society’s finances are managed well and organises money for events and administrative needs.

Role: Liason between the society and the greater Makhanda community. Ink Society aims to extend the magic of creative writing to others through literacy outreach programmes.

Favourite book: The Knife of Never Letting Go / The Starless Sea.

“I’m not crazy, my reality is just different from yours.”

“Strange, isn’t it? To love a book.

When the words on the pages become so precious that they feel like part of your own history because they are. It’s nice to finally have someone read stories I know so intimately.”

Favourite book: Skulduggery Pleasent.

-Anonymous

Favourite author: Ian McEwan.

“The crystalline present moment is of course a worthy subject in itself, especially for poetry; it allows a writer to show his gifts, delve into mysteries of perception, present a stylised version of thought processes, permit the vagaries and unpredictability of the private self to be explored...”

- Ian McEwan

- Erin Morgenstern

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An Introduction by Divhani Mulaudzi

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EMBRACING INEVITABLE CHANGE

ave you ever felt stuck between a rock and a hard place? I have, multiple times actually.

Earlier this year on 28th of March, I was still actively employed as a fundraiser for a foundation that helped children with cancer. The position was based in Johannesburg, my contract was supposedly concluding at the end of the month.

I hoped for an extension, but the silence from my manager was nerve-wracking.

She had not voiced a single comment about my future with the foundation, at least not beyond my contract expiry date.

On the morning of the 31st, the long-awaited meeting took place in a small boardroom. My eyes were gloomy from the sleeplessness I experienced the previous night. My third consecutive yawn was a vindication of my fatigue. I could not retrieve my mind from roaming deep in the valley of uncertainty.

My manager entered the boardroom seven minutes after nine. I had been awaiting her arrival for an aeon. She greeted me with a warm smile, I reverted a nervy grin, and proceeded to study her aura as she perused through a pile of papers on the table. Her small talk was meant to break the ice. Our eyes met intently, and after a deep breath, she said the foundation could no longer retain my position. The decision was influenced by covid-19.

I went home with a hefty heart, unsure of what the future holds. A few days later, I got an invitation to an interview. The company was based in Cape Town, and the second phase of the interview was a face-to-face meeting. I needed to make a decision. I could either stay in Johannesburg - the comfort of familiarity, or delve in a thrilling journey to the unknown. I chose to go against the fear of change and embarked on a journey to Cape Town for the interview.

I did not get the job, but neither did I regret my decision. It was the point of that transition from Johannesburg to Cape Town that changed my life. Not only did I end up securing three online jobs that I love doing, but I also managed to complete my manuscript and received a publishing proposal from a prestigious publisher. This is a dream come true. And it only leaves me with one question in mind… would it all have happened if I didn’t make the move?

Change is inevitable. From seasons to physical growth, you name it. From ancient to contemporary times, we see it. No matter how uncomfortable, no matter how inevitable, there’s always something good that the winds of change gust our way.

The most exciting thing you can do is... Embrace it!

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Writers Bloc

Photographer: MetamorphosisJavier Allegue Barros

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A Tasteful Confession I have a tasteful confession to uncover.

One of how I locked split tongues with multiple syllables, And whispered secret ciphers to my lost lover…

Poetry.

We locked tongues on the first of a torrid month.

There, blood warm lips held frost frozen lips, Cupped them in sinful desire, And performed the first act of taboo, Of lustful mouths hanging at the tips.

She summoned the deed.

To have the soulless self, feed.

I confess.

Winter sighed during the encounter, And his lifelong blizzard proposal seemed appetizing.

To once more taste and possess a soul to oppress.

So, I craved our rendezvous.

Only proposal to oppress meant, Opportunity to depress.

Chained in season, he threw disease to taunt my faith.

Coronavirus, his weapon.

School, my livingry.

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Within him, there my lucid dreams of life would bathe.

And pass.

He, in capsid sheets infected my life.

And poisoned the intimacy of a lover’s touch.

So, when poetry found me, I was diseased, frigid, and out of touch.

But every season knows its end, so winter bid farewell.

Leaving with him, my soul – to match, The vowels of my new lover…

Poetry.

Although I knew not her lips very well.

She breathed life into an empty, blackened vessel.

Kissed the crisp ice from tormented lips, And proposed change where the heart would nestle.

Changes.

They came from whence her softness cuddled my emptiness.

And taught sibling metaphors to shield throng loneliness.

Tanatswa Chagonda Rhodes University Grahamstown

Writers Bloc

Photographer: MetamorphosisCrina Parasca

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Eden i have grown gardens in my bones planting wildflowers in the waves of my hair a transfeminine tapestry clothed in blossoms cascading down my flax-woven skin my body blooms in violets for my lover’s eyes twining threads of linen by her fingertips dressing my ribs in petals of deep purple hue building a sapphic altar from my bark and bones sigils of leaf and lily paint my virid visage a woodland witch’s wreath adorns my crown i am the dryad tending to this forested figure sowing seeds of self-love in her flowerbeds i have learned to love this frame my dwelling place has grown into Eden cultivated my body as a vessel of verdure and within her woods i have made a home

Brianna Violet Rhodes University Johannesburg

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Writers Bloc

Untitled

Somehow I managed to live without you Managed to breathe easier Managed to eat and laugh harder All without you But it’s not about you this time There is this thing in my head It pounds continually I dare not to feed it But instead find myself lonely Why do you come back?

Like a bad weed You keep growing back worse I keep having to have the pain of uprooting you always I was so happy I did nothing at all I look at myself and smile at my beauty I see how the pieces are coming back together The little scars have drawn the constellations on my heart My pain is a glory to those who look upon it I have to face you This time This time Don’t scare my tears

Simnikiwe Kuali Photographer: Ales Maze

Metamorphosis

Rhodes University Makhanda

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Radical Realisations I have been here, In this patch of earth.

Biding my time In my chance-chosen berth.

The ringing bell, Some words softly spoken.

The passing of two, A conjured-up token.

Who am I, To know myself?

A hardened seed Stored on the shelf, Now cast aside and forgotten.

The chance!

To soften this coat And decipher my stance.

Beneath, these trees do filter light.

But the dapples between Do hold my sight.

I draw all in.

And ready my station.

Germination, Attesting creation.

Alice-Jane Marais Rhodes University Johannesburg

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Writers Bloc

Metamorphosis

Photographer: Hennie Stander 15

Photographer: Gaspar Uhas 16

Writers Bloc

Remember Me I love this photograph, the ink holds hope; the promise of unconditional love, the potential for more untroubled memories.

I love this photo because it is just me and you, you and I being together uninterrupted Statued in time and space.

I hate this photo, it makes me envy the past.

I want to rip it to shreds, set it on fire, forget it, replace it.

I want to dive into it, I want to lose myself in it, I want to become it.

The unfairness of forgetting; teeth-clenchingly angry agony A picture is a whispering memory.

The invisible shadow of a flame.

This is my favourite picture of you and me.

This is the last picture of you and me, Dad.

Julian Yeates

Rhodes University Johannesburg

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Photographer: Clay Banks 18

Writers Bloc

Change Everything and everyone keeps changing Change is like Time; it never stops moving Sometimes we don’t realise change until we look back at how far we’ve come Sometimes change can be so drastic that we notice it with a blink of an eye With a blink of an eye, we found ourselves spending more time at home than usual With a blink of an eye, hugging and being close to one another became life-threatening With a blink of an eye, we learnt new words such as Quarantine, Coronavirus, Asymptomatic, etc With a blink of an eye, the world turned dull, quiet, and lonely With a blink of an eye, masks and sanitises became weapons that we needed to protect ourselves The world is slowly transforming into this new era Some believe we’re in the Endgame Some believe to question Everything Some just go with the Flow Some find change exciting Some find change petrifying But no matter how we feel Change will always be there, its infinite

Thato-Baholo Mangoali Rhodes University Eastern Cape

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Help Me See the Light Holding out until you’re near Entrenched in hope but Lost in fear Prayers are weaved between each breath Maybe then I’ll ward off death Etching time right into being Set in stone for all to see Every line a fleeting dream Each stretch of space a gentle plea Thrown in between a silent stream How shallow is my earthly reach?

Entranced by depths I cannot speak Love is lost when formed without, not love Instead, a hopeless drought Grant a drop to spare a soul Hands washed clean of thirst and rot The lesson blooms, a chapter closed.

Markan Andreas Nkwazi Rhodes University Johannesburg

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Writers Bloc

The Shadow of Death is Time I stumbled upon the vantage point of hindsight And found that I had left questions in my wake Why is it that time trudges on When grief emerges and makes itself known?

Why does time gather quietly And engage in flight Once joy is revealed And gently alights?

Photographer: Clay Banks

I hurried into the comfort of a conclusion And searched for answers in the forest of a dream

Metamorphosis

When joy seeks me out Even the shadow of time Melts into the evening As my tears sing warmth And the trees stretch their hands out Ensnared in praise Buried prayers Begin to spring And the prospect of death Loses its sting But only when joy 21

Is ripe and abounding Perhaps it means That time is a language Understood faintly But without instruction An agreement that keeps Our will at arm’s length And holds the requests Of time close to our chests For our hearts march on To the tune of entropy Each pulse an echo Of a moment past Is it unreasonable Or are we too stubborn?

All I know is that it cannot be negotiated Even the sun In all its glory Fails to depart From the splendour of day As it holds on tightly To the moon’s embrace I came face to face with the depths of reflection And cherished the space between answers and questions Was it a wasted year of infertile soil?

If there was anything I had unearthed Perhaps it was the prospect of a fertile soul I found flourishing fields 22

Writers Bloc

Photographer: Daniele Pelusi

Fit for threshing And death watched over them A clock on a wall Drenching each moment In the shadow of time And in the blanket of that darkness Decay did lay It is no stranger To your heart and mine It stalks the harvest Of all our years Approaching with the swagger Of a forgotten king Each breath a page Each step a chapter Answering boldly To a foreign gait Even the incongruent rhythm Of all our desires Pales considerably When the guest of the hour Decides to arrive To our reluctant banquet We sit down for dinner Before I hear a whisper: We’ll be food for time one day So let us marinade In these golden droplets That we call moments.

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Metamorphosis, Change & Transformation Motsheudi Sekgopo Rhodes University Johannesburg

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rowing up, I would envy bigger boys bragging about having pubic hair, a beard, getting any girl they wanted, being independent, impregnating girls, being seniors at school, getting piece jobs, and all other privileges of being an adult but none of them divulged the downside reality of being an adult, how permanent it is being an adult, that you can never go back to being a child again, that you can’t run away from getting grey hair, wrinkles, limping due to old age, many responsibilities, more expectations such as getting a lucrative career, starting a family and other conventional things an adult is expected to do.

I grew up and became the adult that I wanted to become, I got the beard that I wanted, the pubic hair that I wanted, I completed high school, I made it to varsity and got the independence that I wanted and other privileges that come with being an adult. But now, I regret rushing to be an adult and not enjoying my childhood and youth because those years of my life will not come back. No one told me being an adult is such a permanent change, I will no longer get to sit in a class with all teachers knowing my name, all classmates knowing my name, being absent for many days without major consequences, no pressure to get a job and no pressure to start a family.

I now resent my birthday because, with every birthday that comes, it reminds me of how old I am getting and that there is no turning back I have to accept the permanent change of being an adult.

Having children as an adult is also a permanent change, many challenges come with raising a child but as a parent, one needs to be resilient and is expected to keep going. But I asked my grandmother how she felt about getting old and she said getting old is scary at first, but one gets to accept that it is an inevitable change that one gets to enjoy with each year that passes by and like wine, the older it is, the finer it becomes.

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Writers Bloc

Metamorphosis 25 Photographer: Bruno Figueiredo

Jigsaw Yuvthi Misser Rhodes University Makhanda

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he words are staring back at me like a teacher would look at you when they picked you to answer a question.

But you weren’t listening, and you definitely do not know the answer. You don’t know a lot of answers. You would want to know them, know every single one. Answer every single question every “teacher” poses. But do you really want the answers? Do you really want the truth?

It’s a known cliche that truth is painful.

That truth is hard and gross, hard-boiled and scorching to touch. Truth is all-consuming, and if you’re really lucky, truth is debilitating.

Throughout my life, I’ve been placing pieces.

Putting them together where I could, sticking them into temporary places and moving them when I see a permanent spot for them. The harshest reality, the truth about truth is that it’s always going to change. And I hope it never stops changing.

My first puzzle piece, the one I set aside, was that she was mentally unsound. Insane.

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I found this piece when I was a younger teenager. It just collected dust in the corner, I’d pick it up, wipe it clean, marvel, and then put it back down just for it to gather more dust. It made sense. The screaming at picture frames, the hitting, the cursing. All of them attributed to mental illness.

The second piece, I found by luck, in my own lap. It was me. Now I was ill. It spread to me.

It was starting to take effect. I pitied and was annoyed at her before, I watched her suffer.

But now I watch as I scream at moving screens, hurt myself and curse. The second puzzle piece proved that there was a connection, proved that there was a bigger picture to find.

The third piece was a couple of pieces, taped together haphazardly. I did many things. Many tears, many pills, much blood. When I remember them, I feel them on my skin as cold sweats, stinging pain, headaches, vomiting and space.

There was a pattern being established. One that quickly became impenetrable. Of what the pattern consisted, I did not know.

Writers Bloc

Photographer: Mel Poole

Why it existed was even harder to find. All I could gather was that this pattern was too intense and worsened every time. The pattern wove its way and stitched itself into my amygdala and I would follow the harsh outlines like a train track. Everything became numb, I only knew the pattern. The ups and downs it would take me through were all that rocked me to sleep.

When I found the fourth piece, I was not prepared. Sitting in the doctor’s office. Seven years of searching. It came to me, and I never asked. My first piece, the psychosis, proved right. My second, the connection, once again was correct. All that remained to be sewn together was the third. Much to my dismay, it was.

I’m not sure if she told her doctor -- the one I inherited from her as well, a proof of connection yet again -- about the laxative pills she consumed ritualistically. Poor, obvious father not noticing dear wife has given herself an eating disorder, has destroyed her digestive tract. Her brain came next, following along with her body in a dance that would please both God and The Devil.

Metamorphosis

She had leftover gifts, the generational trauma of Indian women woven into her like a pattern.

The distorted reality gave her a platform. The sickness gave her means. Her scorched amygdala tied the noose.

To this day, I still do not know if I have solved the entire puzzle. I do not know whether I will get more pieces, more things from a life I was in but not the main part of. I would find much sadness if the puzzle was completed. If I had to pack it in its box and set it on a shelf. I know I’m running out of time, and I’m aware that soon my life will be a puzzle too. I hope one day someone tries to solve me, whether their means or mine.

The puzzle, the changes. The truth that bears its weight on my chest; it gives me my means. I don’t plan to break the pattern. I don’t plan to do much. I want to continue changing the narrative, finding more pieces of the truth as I grow.

I never planned for such a jigsaw to present itself to me and make my life something I could romanticise into a story. But the truth is, the big picture is unattainable.

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Divine Self

How taboo this love is of ours A strong act of rebellion, Sweet and passionate defiance, Crashing and burning Into each other With every glance exchanged, Fumbling fingers finding fortunes Hidden away In the folds that house our old truth.

How taboo this love is of ours Such beauty exists in the unconventional, Blurry hazes of euphoria escaping my mouth In the form of gentle moans, Waves of infinite release gush with a rush of pressure, slowly built over years of yearning.

How dare you call yourself a poet?

What do you know about love?

Hush, now A quick fluttering of eyelids opening, my wandering eyes take in the shameless sight before me: A goddess Dripping sunlight Pure and golden Beckoning me Craving her touch I reach for her How dare you call yourself a poet?

What do you know about love?

Only to trip over intricate webs Of thoughts and ideas, 28

Photographer: Reno Laithienne

Writers Bloc

Sudden sieges of dysphoria, Guilt and contempt Override the thrill How do I explain it?

How do I put into words Years worth of conflicting, complex thoughts Swirling Around This messy mind of mine?

To yell at the world And say Yes, I have a poet’s heart. I crave deep love.

Yes, I have a poet’s mind. Passion engulfs me.

Yes, I have a poet’s mouth. Hear me sing those heavenly hymns sinfully.

Yes Yes oh god, yes don’t stop And yet The spiteful words once spat Across my face Lie deeply embedded Into those fine lines That house my old truth, So deep are these throes of passions Carefully constructed To conceal the conflict, To reflect what was previously denied, To conform to what is conventional How dare you choose to love yourself?

Chewed up and reduced Told to be slimmer No, thicker Metamorphosis

Source: Reno Laithienne

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No, darker No, fairer No. No more.

I am enough.

Here she stands In all her glory and power Big, brown and beautiful She calls out to me again And I am there Whole and complete Ink at my fingertips Imparting all that I am and once was Across her chest Fingertips tracing Her soft flesh Finding their way To her hidden treasures Seeking divine pleasure in all her love I gaze at her face once more, Those enchanting eyes Snatch away all trace of me With just one glance How taboo this love is of ours.

I stand here Gazing into the mirror Breathless.

Yes I dare to love myself.

Kevala Rungopal Rhodes University Durban

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Metamorphosis 31

Photographer: Lua Valentia

A Poem About Anxiety & Depression I remember it came in the evening, At 7 years old while I was sleeping.

It told me it wants to protect me, And in doing so cuddle me. It said that it did not want to leave me.

So, I invited it in, this new friend that wanted to box me in.

From then on, it was a love and hate relationship.

I would love its companion, but I would hate its opinions. It said this world doesn’t deserve me.

That I was its property all alone, I believed it all along.

But today I confronted it, told it to leave me alone.

It said that I invited it in, and I will always carry it along.

But today I’m getting rid of it, by fighting to free myself from it!

Today it came and coaxed me again, like it came in the evening all those years ago.

Nhlanhla Mkhutle Rhodes University Makhanda

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Writers Bloc

Photographer: MetamorphosisDima Perchuri

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Seeing is Believing Nhlanhla Mkhutle Rhodes University Makhanda

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nother day in the land of the living…

It is day 44 of lockdown in South Africa. I see my mother in the corner of my eye, a sobbing mess I tell you.

This was my sixth attempt at suicide this year.

I have never been fascinated by life, or the things that other people find amusing about living. I have always toyed with the idea of being a hero of my own story, to go out with a bang!

It has been three days in this hospital, so I am told, they say I am going to be discharged today.

My mother, the most organized and selfcomposed person in the world is a sobbing mess today. My father, the proud Zulu man had his head slightly tilted, not showing emotion as always, with cold brown eyes and a stern expression on his face. He must have been embarrassed to have a son like me, I imagine.

A son who loves the idea of death, the idea of non-existence as I like to call it. My parents were reluctant to bring me home, I had messed with the image that they have created all these years,

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of a perfect, God-fearing family.

The first thing that they did after hearing that I was going to be discharged is to sign me into a mental institution. I always called it Coon-Ville because of all the joy deprived, zombie-looking people there.

It was not my first time in Coon-Ville, I had managed to get out 4 months ago on account of “good behavior”. I had played the greatest game of mental chess with the doctors and nurses.

Those clip-clopping shoes and white wearing uniform nurses, who look at you like you are the scourge of the earth, who whisper words like “crazy”, “demon-possessed” behind your back and give each inmate of Coon-Ville a horrendous name. I heard mine on the 7th day of my stay there, being whispered by the guards next to my room.

They called me “model C-hlanya”, meaning model-C crazy. I think it stems from my overtly white accent when speaking English and expressing myself.

Writers Bloc

I kind of like it though, to know that there are people who are intimidated by me because of how I speak gives me inexplicable joy. Enough reminiscing about the good ole’ days. I have been giving a one-year sentence stay in Coon-Ville this time around. My father, the reincarnation of Shaka Zulu signed the in-patient papers with the swiftness of the Holy Spirit.

I dreaded being here again, the pale blue worn out curtains, the bleach and Handy-Andy smelling corridors, the pale whitish paint on the walls, a reminder of a time passed, and the overly loud nurses who were talking about the return of “model-c hlanya”.

They always prided themselves in being prophets of doom, scoring us from 1- 10 on the basis of coming back to Coon-Ville.

The big bellied one said that she had scored me a nine to come back here. Am I back here though?

Or am I still sleeping?

Metamorphosis

Photographer: Hans Eiskonen

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Coffee Contemplations It’s crazy isn’t it? …how we wake up and leave parts of ourselves hidden in unmade beds, how we take on the plastic smiles and nod as we parade through the day: hiding unmarked graves of ourselves in the deep corners of our souls, how we dance and laugh to cover up the pain and tears that take up our sleep and enslave our minds.

It’s bravery isn’t it? …how we get back to bed and insanely hope to give birth to dreams that are filled with rays of sunshine.

How we wash and dress up the haunted houses -which we lightly call our bodiesand in a sanctimonious manner hope for a good day.

It’s magical isn’t it? …how we carry the little pieces of our broken mess with gentle strides of patience; while we dare to erase the marks that were left by the shadows that sleep underneath our beds.

It’s phenomenal isn’t it? …how we paint our souls and prick fate to see if it bleeds peace and hope, how we burn our skin in the hope of rising unscathed from the ashes of truth.

Nqobani Dabengwa Rhodes University Bulawayo

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Writers Bloc

Metamorphosis

Photographer: Steve Harvey

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Prayers of Eve Eden’s daughter, encased in a man’s ribcage my own broken - a shattered womb of bone debris of creation tunnel into my bloody heart i bleed by the will of Adam turn me to dust, dear Maker, i scream reform my body from the Garden’s soil take my skin to forge anew from ash i still see too much Adam in my bones angels of fire guard the gates you built they burn away my breath when i near my lungs aflame, i cannot speak or scream in violent searing silence i can only pray heed the prayer of the Garden’s daughter take my rib from my broken breast as clay of creation to mold Eve anew and banish Adam from my home Brianna Violet Rhodes University Johannesburg

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Writers Bloc

Metamorphosis

Photographer: Luigi Boccardo 39

Photographer: Luigi Boccardo

A South African Story Zizikazi Njokweni Rhodes University King William’s Town

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his isn’t your typical South African story. this is about the aftermath. that story where you spend years avoiding mirrors because your body is no longer yours to look at. the story that reverberates in your chest like the bass that was playing in the background when your story began. you are in a colonial house using a typewriter as a doorstop. you make a mental note to ask for

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it before you leave. wooden floors are carrying drunk university students and staircase closets are a conversation around beers and jägerbombs. “do you think it has apartheid stuff in it?” He asks. someone groans in the background because we don’t need to discuss those things at a party, it’s divisive. a white person mentions pink-bluegreen-purple people to show he doesn’t see colour.

Writers Bloc

of all people this could have happened to, why you? but if not you, then who else would you give this burden to? why are they more deserving than you are? you tell everyone that the closet is probably empty since the house was given up for student digs. “but then why lock it?” He asks “to keep people with wandering hands away from the things inside,” you look at Him, brown eyes glossy with gin and stealing. when you were upstairs in the bathroom taking a piss, He walked in assuming it was empty. you told Him that’s why God invented knocking, and He told you about the protective nature of keys. you both laughed at how alcohol made the situation bizarre: how many times would a woman let a man she only speaks to at parties into the bathroom as she wipes front to back and washes her hands?

He stood in front of the toilet and told you He’s always thought you attractive but your boyfriend was always around.

Metamorphosis

“what he doesn’t know won’t kill him,” you said. “and besides, what’s a little fun between friends?” “that’s what I was thinking, but you seem quite into him,” He shakes the water off His hands. “sure, but i might as well fuck while i’m still young and my boobs are perky”

Source: Deeana Creates

your friends throw furtive glances at you because you’re the one who’s always up for debates even when you’re entire bottles in, your tongue slower than your thoughts, but not tonight. tonight your life has completely derailed and that’s all that occupies your mind.

He planted a kiss on your lip and whispered in your ear that the night would truly be memorable now that you’re on the same page. you still can’t look at yourself in the mirror because His eyes boring into yours while He tore you stare back at you. you take scalding showers to remove, months later, the sticky sweet smell of cheap wine whose bottle was rammed into you. how is it assault if you came? your mind isn’t yours because your thoughts are plagued by that evening: everything happened before and everything happened after, that is how you tell time. your story changes. you are no longer a 23 year old failing out of law school, you are a 23 year old rape victim. you failed out of law school because you never told anyone because you were embarrassed. every decision you make falls back onto that incident. this is your South African story.

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Photographer: Pakicevic Nenad 42

Writers Bloc

Chrysalis Nia Van Niekerk Rhodes University Makhanda

T

hey’d peeled him first. Shuddering leaves of skin falling from a cocoon, the way all butterflies are born.

“Phase two complete. Moving to the lower back.”

Heavy breaths behind the masks, but they didn’t faze him. This was a rebirth.

There was a slight buzz under his eyelids. A hum within the sinews of his brain. Had something gone wrong with the anesthetic? Likely yes. He should try and alert them. But then that may halt the process, lead to more months of waiting.

And didn’t he want to fly?

Hadn’t they all always wanted to fly? Humanity, chained to the soil. Hairless, flightless, pitiful things always groveling to the earth. And always pining, gazing up. No other terrestrial animal was cursed like that. To long for the sky and be crippled from it.

That deep urge meant something. Yes, it was human’s birthright to fly. They would write the code themselves if nature refused to.

The church had a problem with it. Animal rights activists and most other scientists, too. Not much fluidity in this process.

Butterflies could construct their cocoons, birds and insects were blessed with an organic growth. His chrysalis would have to be here. A white room, sharp utensils throwing florescent light. Bright droplets on the tiles. Not much that was natural, he would grant them that.

But could any modern advancement be defined as natural?

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Could electricity be considered natural, taken from the sky and domesticated for the home by mere mortals?

But then the church had likely rebelled against electricity too, he supposed, at a stage.

Not long now surely. Was he truly conscious? He couldn’t feel the incisions, the openings and stitching. But they must be there. His back, yawning red to the heavens. He supposed the scene behind him could easily be argued as unholy. He’d read somewhere about a man fully conscious during surgery. Feeling, thinking, but unable to move. Well, he certainly couldn’t feel anything. But he could think.

Why shouldn’t mankind fly? What could truly limit us, but ourselves? If it was sincerely unnatural, then it would be impossible. It would fail.

All children want to fly straight through the clouds- after today they could.

Another question, in his waking dream. It floated to him. Would a change like this in his body affect his soul?

If there were gates, would he be barred? He imagined his ghost, trailing long translucent appendages. Bones cracking when he moved them, even in the afterlife.

“Final phase complete. Stabilizing.”

Against nature, they’d said…

Would he be dammed for this? How odd that he hadn’t thought of this before. Before the procedure, before working so hard to be this final subject. He had only thought of flying.

“Finalization.”

If he was dammed, it was funny. A man in the shape of an angel.

In the next hours they would draw him down into insentience, and then draw him back out. When he awoke, he would be new.

Everything would be new.

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Writers Bloc

Metamorphosis

Photographer: Marx Ilagan 45

An Ode to My Phoenix Nqobani Dabengwa Rhodes University Bulawayo

I

saw you. I watched you look so earnestly into the mirror, eager to see a reflection but all you saw was darkness. I observed you when your eyes lost all hope and your shoulders began to hang like the arms of a willow tree. I studied you when your wings began to break away from your skin and I stared when depression became the constant lover at your doorstep. You stopped laughing and the flames in your feathers started dimming their light. The sun stopped rising just as you ceased to awaken from your nest and you enveloped yourself in a blanket of tears. I saw the light knocking outside the

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walls of your heart, yet the darkness hissed and chased it away. I cried when I saw you slowly dying to yourself. You died and time froze.

You died, but from your own ashes you were reborn. Poetry scattered seeds of hope from every tear that you shed to pave a golden pathway in honour of you being reborn. I rejoiced when the birds of faith sang to your tender heart; when you harnessed the rays of light so you could find your way in this murky world. From the swift movements of the pen and the dark marks of ink, you weaved yourself back into existence.

When the fangs of hopelessness sunk deep Writers Bloc

You preached hope into my dry bones, you danced with my skeletons and freed them from the closet. You cleansed the shadows

Metamorphosis

and purged the pain away from my tainted soul. You were -and still are- my chimeric phoenix that whispers strength into my fragile actuality. I hope one day you will fly and perch at the next tired soul in the universe, because we all get weary from hiding under that “I’m fine” mask. Maybe you will untie the anchor of tiredness from their burdened spirits, maybe they will feel the gloomy belt of depression fall straight down to the ground. Maybe they will sing loudly again, maybe they will dance to the rhythm of the wind like butterflies. Maybe, just maybe, they will begin to feel alive once more.

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Photographer: Gleb Lukomets

into your skin, the depths of prose drew out the venom from the corners of your mind into the thick pages of your journal. I marvelled when I saw you break the chains of self-hate and kiss away the dreadful scars left by insecurity. I nearly cried when I saw the thread of hope stitching your wings back together again so that you could soar into a world of endless possibilities. You lived so I could live, hence I write this narration, a reminder of your past tragedies from your healing future self.

Dreamer’s Dawn Tyron Stewart Rhodes University St Francis Bay

O

nce upon the dawn of time, a dream was dreamt. This dream was of nothing in particular, as there was not yet anything in the world, or any world, worth dreaming about.

Everything was either molten rock or endless blackness or the ever-screaming wails of birthing stars. While each of these events and constants may sound more fascinating than any dream could be, they are the only things there had been, back then in that roaring cold of the beginning, and as such were not important to the first dreamer and their first dream. When their eyes closed all that was seen was all that was there when they were awake, the only difference being that they knew it was not real, but a twirled and slanted version of what was seen with opened eyes.

While the contents of the dream itself was nothing interesting, the experience and possibility of the dream was of no equal disinterest. They saw something that was

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not real, but had, in some way, come from what was. The dreamer moved between things, those that were and those that had not yet been, in search of something new, something to be put in and mixed with what had been. The more the dreamer dreamt, the more they saw that space and distance were meaningless. Things that were mounds of time and void apart when they were awake were little steps apart in the dream, and often clashed through themselves. Being real, but also following no rules save their own.

The dreamer moved boiling rock and frozen empty together in the times of their open eyes, because their dream had done so. In the dream it had simply become a thing they had seen before, a burning star.

But, the dreamer thought when waking, what if the real thing is beyond my way of thought? And, it was. Being brought together made the rock and empty hiss and cool, turning blue and strange. The ball was unlike anything the dreamer had seen Writers Bloc

before.

With every dream the dreamer would see things done they’d never thought of, but only see outcomes of what they knew.

When in the open eyed, the dreamer would perform the dream’s request and dream of the results, always new and unforeseen was the world’s reality when followed by the dream’s example.

The dreamer had been the only moving and thinking thing it had ever know, but through following the wisdom of their own dream were they able to make other thinking and moving things.

These things were little and could not move between the empty voids of hollow space, instead these little lives lived on those small coloured rocks, only made possible by the dreamer’s sleeping instinct.

The dreamer could never touch nor hold these small lives, but could visit and reach them through their own little dreams. The dreamer became the dream of their own dream.

Metamorphosis

Photographer: Oliver Hihn

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Carved in Stone Dylan Scott University of KwaZulu-Natal Westville How long have I been? I’ve lost track of time.

I vaguely remember my first lives.

Wriggling, water, the dull creeping numbness of death. Darkness. Over and over again. The pressing of thousands of myself and other things upon my backs.

Change. Slow, gradual. Buried in the dark. My dead form evolving over eons of heat and pressure.

And then, light.

Steel teeth bit into me, opened me up to the naked sky.

Cut, dragged, pulled, moved. Before I knew what was happening, I was sold.

My master was a strange thing of flesh and hair. His twinkling orbs inspected me with cold judgement. Then he took his iron fangs to me and cut me, tearing away chunks of me. Days, weeks, months. My torment was slow and gradual. He was a patient torturer.

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I wasn’t his first experiment at creating life. I saw the broken remains of the sacrifices to his mad hubris around his laboratory.

I was lucky. Eventually it ended. He was content with me.

I had a form like his, but different. Tall and slender. Ripples fell at the top. Curves graced my form.

My father held me, and water dripped over me. He murmured quivering sounds. I felt his loss. It reverberated to my core.

I was sold to a man in glittering colours, who was bejewelled in the cut corpses of my cousins. He placed me in a hall made of my siblings, my comrades mirrored along it.

And there we stood for centuries. I saw my father a few more times, and was startled to see how he grew stooped, and how his hair grew winter white. Each time he saw me, rain ran in rivulets down the crevices of his old face. And one day he left Writers Bloc

Photographer: MetamorphosisJoel Filipe

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for the last time.

The glittering man left one day too. I watched his children pass, and then their children. Generations passed before my stony eyes.

Then came the blood and the bangs. Stray steel tore a hole in my head. The glittering men were replaced by serious men in black, who came and went like the changing seasons.

I was moved. I came to see new people.

I remember a little girl in particular. Her eyes were the colour of wet brown clay, and she loved me. I watched her grow. Watched her come to look like me. Saw her bring a little copy of herself to see me. Watched her grow old like my father. And then she too was gone.

People came and went. The nights became lit with fire and cursed by screams. I was moved again by whispering men all in black.

I do not like my new home. It is a grim cave of cold concrete. Overhead, the earth shakes. I see no one.

How long have I been here? Down in the cold belly of my mother? I do not know.

I have lost track of time. But I will never forget the girl with the wet-clay-brown eyes.

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Photographer: Fotografierende

Writers Bloc

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Acknowledgements Thank you to the team of Ink Society for tirelessly working on this anthology. To Kevala, for organising submissions and contacting outside sources for input. To Dylan and Julian for creatively and tentatively shaping and designing the anthology. The project would not have been possible without your dedication and patience, thank you for keeping Writers Bloc alive.

Thank you for the amazing dedication of the Ink Society members and their patience in awaiting this anthology. Your submissions have truly made the anthology come to life, never stop writing!

Many thanks goes to Simon Pamphilon for supervising this issue and giving advice along the way, a second opinion always helps.

We praise Divhani Mulaudzi for his impeccable opening words to this anthology, thank you.

Appreciation and acclamation to Unsplash and their array of beautiful photographs and talented photographers, the anthology wouldn’t be as colourful without them.

And most importantly, to you, dear reader. Thank you for taking the time to peruse our second Writers Bloc. We appreciate your continued support and hope our anthology inspires you to keep writing, and writing, and writing.

y t e i c o S Ink Regards...

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Photographer: Aaron Burden

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