The white lillies yield to the wind and hang their heads, acknowledging the passing of a hero. They seem to want to scatter as strong gusts overwhelm the wreath, and as it finally takes off only to land some footfalls away, the sweet scent envelopes me. Farewell, my senses hear. Joy be unto you. I begin to hear the first chords of a forgotten melody, the lyrics beckoning me to a life not unknown.
My father once told me to think of life as a bridge that we all must cross, that even if the crossing is painful and long, the banks of the river on the far side gets closer with each step. He told me to look back once in a whiile, to see the progress I have made. I remember that night as we sat on the roof and he told me never to forget my past and the roots from which I came. I listened quietly until he made me promise.
"Do you understand, Margarid? Our people have been persecuted since the dawn of Christianity because we were the first to accept what others would not. Your grandparents were murdered for belonging to the motherland. Promise me, promise me you'll never forget who you are." He sang me a song afterwards. He was an excelled singer, his tongue expertly rolling the words in his mouth, taking me to that strange land in the East. I have not set foot on my father's beloved country to this day, yet I feel as if I belong to its intricate story.
He was one of the lucky ones. I think it was partly his stubbornness that kept him alive. After all, he was only a teenager who wanted to see the world and live. He wanted to be a musician and travel the globe with his friend. He wanted to know what being rich felt like, wanted the experience of spending money on useless objects just because he could. He wanted to see tigers in India and the bull fights in Spain. He wanted to learn to swim. But I think it was mostly the will to see his father again that kept him walking. The possibility of seeing those wise eyes woke him each morning and allowed his legs to move forwards, although it seemed to him as though he was floating above the sand rather than dragging his feet. By the time he reached Aleppo his mother's body had long been left behind, as so many others' had. His sister Anahit - to whom, according to my father, I am identical - died three weeks after their arrival. And afterwards, when he did not find his father's name on the list of survivors of those who were deported to Turkey, he was forced to learn the fact that his life had been changed drastically and that nothing would ever be the same. He grew harsh and cold living with his aunt during his last years in Armenia.
He stepped on a boat on a cold, foggy morning of 1920 after a breakfast of porridge and stale bread. He and his cousin Hagop both kissed his aunt goodbye and left Armenia behind without a backward glance.
I watch as one of the lillies frees itself from the tangle of leaves and stems. As I bend to pick it up, somebody gently rests their hand on my back. It is my mother, a pale woman by nature, but all the more paler today. Not a single teardrop has escaped her eyes, she shed all of hers a week ago. She is responsible for breaking my father's cemented shell, for teaching him to be what he forgot to be. I stand here now, facing her, and see her pain-filled eyes, but also a sense of serenity and acceptance. I give her the lily and she holds it with both hands.
I look back before closing the gate behind me. I see the shiny granite, smooth and cold. In my mind I read its inscription: Aram Dorian 1900-1978 Loving husband and father. And underneath in tiny letters, Enjoy the walk. Standing beside his words, I glimpse my father waiting for me on the other side of the bridge.
Showing posts with label CREATIVE WRITING. Show all posts
Showing posts with label CREATIVE WRITING. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Driving by H Searle
"Welcome to the session, Bob." He said warmly. This was followed by the stereotypical chorus of "Hi Bob..."
"Would you care to tell us why you're here?"
I looked down at my very clean hands. I looked up and said, very slowly, "I have aichurophobia, ankylophobia, amaxophobia, belonephobia and dysteychiphobia."
The room silenced completely. I studied my mahogany-brown shoes. I squirmed in my chair. I studied my mahogany-brown shoes again. I prepared to leave. Someone said, "Is that all?"
I felt a smile of embarassed relief overwhelm my facial muscles and spread across my face.
He looked up at me kindly and said, "Now group, as usual, Bob is going to share his problems with us in more detail. He will also try to pinpoint the cause of the problems." He looked at me expectantly.
"Well..." I said, clearing my throat, "it all started when I got into a thing with wheels, steering wheel, break..."
"A car." He said. I winced.
"Yes. That. You know I heard a funny thing the other day to do with phobias."
"Great but we are really trying to-"
"It went like this: 'I'm afraid of grounds!'
'You mean heights.'
'I know what I mean! It's the ground that kills you!'"
"That was really funny, but you were saying..."
There is just no side-tracking some people.
"I got into a...car... And I drove. And as I drove, I became aware of a number of things. People don't realise it but driving is dangerous and complicated. We often get told, 'Oh, you know an aeroplane is safer than a car?' and our subconscious reply is, 'Yes I do, but my death trap has a stereo and private air conditioning'. Sure some people struggle with moving the flappy things by your legs, but there's more to it. What we are essentially doing when we drive is taking a metal cage of doom on wheels and driving it along a piece of asphalt. All, and I mean all, that sits between us and the next metal cage of doom on wheels is a little line. Not a wall, or a glass barrier but a little painted white line and the hope that the guy coming towards us at 80 kilometeres per house in a machine weighing over 400 kilograms will stay on his side. It's like fighting kids... 'This is your side, this is my side. So long as you stay on your side, we won't have any problems.' And I guess that's where most of my phobias come from. It asll started, I think, with dystychiphobia, the fear of accidents."
"I have that," said a brown-jacketed man to my left.
"Isn't it annoying?" I asked him.
"Yes, I guess," he replied, "but it's kept me alive up until this point. I mean, is it really irrational to be afraid of accidents?"
The doctor finally spoke up. "To the point where it inhibits your quality of life, yes. It is, however, good to be wary of accidents on the road and to do all one can to avoid them."
"Anyway," I said without a trace of annoyance, "that obviously lead to aicurophobia, the fear of being touched by pointed objects. If I'm in a... thing on wheels... and am in an accident, I will be touched by sharp objects, like glass or broken metal and probably die."
"I think that's a little extreme," a woman on my right said. "Many people drive daily without accidents. And impaling is not all that common in accidents due to the way the cars are designed. Crushing should be your main concern, as when a car collides with-"
"Okay I think that's quite enough Percilla."
"Yes doctor."
I continued, "Then if you're in an accident, you can't move. So that's where I got my ankylophobia from. What if I'm trapped and I can't move a joint? It'll be like not having an arm! It'll be so terrible, it'll-"
"Calm down, Bob, you're in a safe place." The doctor soothed.
"Alright. I'm fine." I said panting. "And obviously with that come belonephobia. I can't stand pins and needles, it-"
"Let's not go there today, shall we?"
"Okay. And I guess all of this adds up to my amaxophobia." I finished levelly.
"So you're afraid of automobiles because of all the other things you're afraid of. Not uncommon. Group, where do we usually start?" the doctor asked.
As one voice they answered, "What do you do as a profession?"
"Well?" he asked me, one word and a raise of eyebrow doing the job of a whole sentence.
"I'm a learner driver."
"Would you care to tell us why you're here?"
I looked down at my very clean hands. I looked up and said, very slowly, "I have aichurophobia, ankylophobia, amaxophobia, belonephobia and dysteychiphobia."
The room silenced completely. I studied my mahogany-brown shoes. I squirmed in my chair. I studied my mahogany-brown shoes again. I prepared to leave. Someone said, "Is that all?"
I felt a smile of embarassed relief overwhelm my facial muscles and spread across my face.
He looked up at me kindly and said, "Now group, as usual, Bob is going to share his problems with us in more detail. He will also try to pinpoint the cause of the problems." He looked at me expectantly.
"Well..." I said, clearing my throat, "it all started when I got into a thing with wheels, steering wheel, break..."
"A car." He said. I winced.
"Yes. That. You know I heard a funny thing the other day to do with phobias."
"Great but we are really trying to-"
"It went like this: 'I'm afraid of grounds!'
'You mean heights.'
'I know what I mean! It's the ground that kills you!'"
"That was really funny, but you were saying..."
There is just no side-tracking some people.
"I got into a...car... And I drove. And as I drove, I became aware of a number of things. People don't realise it but driving is dangerous and complicated. We often get told, 'Oh, you know an aeroplane is safer than a car?' and our subconscious reply is, 'Yes I do, but my death trap has a stereo and private air conditioning'. Sure some people struggle with moving the flappy things by your legs, but there's more to it. What we are essentially doing when we drive is taking a metal cage of doom on wheels and driving it along a piece of asphalt. All, and I mean all, that sits between us and the next metal cage of doom on wheels is a little line. Not a wall, or a glass barrier but a little painted white line and the hope that the guy coming towards us at 80 kilometeres per house in a machine weighing over 400 kilograms will stay on his side. It's like fighting kids... 'This is your side, this is my side. So long as you stay on your side, we won't have any problems.' And I guess that's where most of my phobias come from. It asll started, I think, with dystychiphobia, the fear of accidents."
"I have that," said a brown-jacketed man to my left.
"Isn't it annoying?" I asked him.
"Yes, I guess," he replied, "but it's kept me alive up until this point. I mean, is it really irrational to be afraid of accidents?"
The doctor finally spoke up. "To the point where it inhibits your quality of life, yes. It is, however, good to be wary of accidents on the road and to do all one can to avoid them."
"Anyway," I said without a trace of annoyance, "that obviously lead to aicurophobia, the fear of being touched by pointed objects. If I'm in a... thing on wheels... and am in an accident, I will be touched by sharp objects, like glass or broken metal and probably die."
"I think that's a little extreme," a woman on my right said. "Many people drive daily without accidents. And impaling is not all that common in accidents due to the way the cars are designed. Crushing should be your main concern, as when a car collides with-"
"Okay I think that's quite enough Percilla."
"Yes doctor."
I continued, "Then if you're in an accident, you can't move. So that's where I got my ankylophobia from. What if I'm trapped and I can't move a joint? It'll be like not having an arm! It'll be so terrible, it'll-"
"Calm down, Bob, you're in a safe place." The doctor soothed.
"Alright. I'm fine." I said panting. "And obviously with that come belonephobia. I can't stand pins and needles, it-"
"Let's not go there today, shall we?"
"Okay. And I guess all of this adds up to my amaxophobia." I finished levelly.
"So you're afraid of automobiles because of all the other things you're afraid of. Not uncommon. Group, where do we usually start?" the doctor asked.
As one voice they answered, "What do you do as a profession?"
"Well?" he asked me, one word and a raise of eyebrow doing the job of a whole sentence.
"I'm a learner driver."
Crime and Punishment by H Searle
A person with an unpleasantly heavy black bag walked through the open door. The things the bag contained and who they were meant for, they would find out later.
In the passageway before the open door stood a confused man. "It doesn't have to be this way!" he said, a tear, like a silent raindrop, rolling down his cheek.
"It does." The man replied plainly, his drawn face set with resolution to do the deed. "A price needs to be paid. A crime cannot go unpunished."
"By why you?" the man pleaded, "You have never done anything wrong! Only good has come from your life!"
"I know the prisoner," the man replied, looking into his eyes. "I know what he has the potential to become if the price were paid."
He was silent.
"It is time," the man said, "for mercy."
The man in black fell on his knees and blocked it all out, covering his eyes.
He heard a gunshot.
Price paid, the prisoner stepped through the massive archway, in front of the man on his knees. Putting his knees into the damp dust in front of him, the prinsoner whispered, "Why me?"
In the passageway before the open door stood a confused man. "It doesn't have to be this way!" he said, a tear, like a silent raindrop, rolling down his cheek.
"It does." The man replied plainly, his drawn face set with resolution to do the deed. "A price needs to be paid. A crime cannot go unpunished."
"By why you?" the man pleaded, "You have never done anything wrong! Only good has come from your life!"
"I know the prisoner," the man replied, looking into his eyes. "I know what he has the potential to become if the price were paid."
He was silent.
"It is time," the man said, "for mercy."
The man in black fell on his knees and blocked it all out, covering his eyes.
He heard a gunshot.
Price paid, the prisoner stepped through the massive archway, in front of the man on his knees. Putting his knees into the damp dust in front of him, the prinsoner whispered, "Why me?"
I Wonder Why PART ONE by S Tinelli
I wonder why? I thought as I was running, but then my thoughts were pushed to the side as another bomb hit and I was thrown down by the force of the explosion. I lifted my body up as if I was a masterless puppet and pushed on. I am running from the German officers, my name is Katiana, it is October 5th 1939 and the war has just begun....
As I ran down Von Aldrecht Street, I thought of the day our house was bombed, I thought of Caris, Alexander and Silvia my two brothers and younger sister. My mind also happened to bring up my parents and grandmother. when the house was bombed I was downstairs, outside, and they were all insidetrying to escape, knowing that they might die any second. And at that moment it hit. The house crumbled and I lay under what was once my home, unconscious and unaware that my whole family had just been killed and were buried under our memories. And I am left alone.
I cleared my mind and tried to think of a place to hide that the Germans weren't already guarding. I saw two of the officers and I knew that they saw me, although I wished to heavens above that they hadn't. I tried to hide around the next bend but as I looked up to clear my surroundings they were there. I felt alone, out of place, I felt Jewish.
As I was carried away I tried desperately to fight my way loose but they were too strong for my weak body, I felt them put something or other on my ankle but before I could see it I was unconscious.
We were summoned outside by the loud, heavy voices of the German generals. We stood in a crows but it was not long until we were forced into a line. I drifted off, looking at a beautiful line of trees just at the end of the camp. And then I broke the silence in my head and carried on listening. they said to lift up our left sleeves. I was not looking forward to this, I already knew what they were going to do to us, but I wished I didn't know. As I looked at the other girls I noticed one, surprisingly gentle looking German officer, who was watching me. It was a relief to me, to see gentle but scared eyes and I could immediately see that he didn't have a choice in being there either.
The general took the branding iron out of the heated chamber and muttered something under his breath, in German, just so that the other officers could hear and we all watched as they laughed dangerously at what the general had said, only he didn't laugh. His name badge said his name was Heinz. I don't know why but every time I lay my eyes on him I felt a rush of adrenalin and reassurance.
I watched as the general walked down the row of girls, branding them. I knew that he knew that he was hurting them but in his eyes you could se that he didn't care who got hurt, just that they did. I couldn't image their pain and what made it worse was that my turn was still coming. As he pushed the iron into my skin I could feel the reaction of heat melting skin under the red hot sizzling surface. He lifted it off my skin but the pain lasted long after he had removed it.
As I ran down Von Aldrecht Street, I thought of the day our house was bombed, I thought of Caris, Alexander and Silvia my two brothers and younger sister. My mind also happened to bring up my parents and grandmother. when the house was bombed I was downstairs, outside, and they were all insidetrying to escape, knowing that they might die any second. And at that moment it hit. The house crumbled and I lay under what was once my home, unconscious and unaware that my whole family had just been killed and were buried under our memories. And I am left alone.
I cleared my mind and tried to think of a place to hide that the Germans weren't already guarding. I saw two of the officers and I knew that they saw me, although I wished to heavens above that they hadn't. I tried to hide around the next bend but as I looked up to clear my surroundings they were there. I felt alone, out of place, I felt Jewish.
As I was carried away I tried desperately to fight my way loose but they were too strong for my weak body, I felt them put something or other on my ankle but before I could see it I was unconscious.
We were summoned outside by the loud, heavy voices of the German generals. We stood in a crows but it was not long until we were forced into a line. I drifted off, looking at a beautiful line of trees just at the end of the camp. And then I broke the silence in my head and carried on listening. they said to lift up our left sleeves. I was not looking forward to this, I already knew what they were going to do to us, but I wished I didn't know. As I looked at the other girls I noticed one, surprisingly gentle looking German officer, who was watching me. It was a relief to me, to see gentle but scared eyes and I could immediately see that he didn't have a choice in being there either.
The general took the branding iron out of the heated chamber and muttered something under his breath, in German, just so that the other officers could hear and we all watched as they laughed dangerously at what the general had said, only he didn't laugh. His name badge said his name was Heinz. I don't know why but every time I lay my eyes on him I felt a rush of adrenalin and reassurance.
I watched as the general walked down the row of girls, branding them. I knew that he knew that he was hurting them but in his eyes you could se that he didn't care who got hurt, just that they did. I couldn't image their pain and what made it worse was that my turn was still coming. As he pushed the iron into my skin I could feel the reaction of heat melting skin under the red hot sizzling surface. He lifted it off my skin but the pain lasted long after he had removed it.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
The Real Fairytalesl: Snow White by A Hess
Chapter 1
"For the last time -I WILL NOT CLEANT HE HOUSE!" I yell at the dwarves.
"But the book-" Happy holds up a book called Snow White.
"-is just a book which is freakishly similar to my life!" I grab it from Happy and throw it across the room. "Now," I say, "I am a princess and I refuse to do housework. That is your job." I point at the dwarves.
"But in the story it says that once you are chased by your step-motheryou'll come here and clea-" Dopey begins.
"I WILL NOT CLEAN! And I don't have a step-mother; the person trying to kill me is my REAL mother. She thinks I'm stealing her beauty. So she wants to kill me so she can get her beauty back! Ha! That crazy old hag!" I laugh.
"You're..." Bashful says, "...nothing like the story Miss Snow Whi-"
"MY NAME ISN'T SHOW WHITE! I mean, what kind of idiot would name their child that?! My name is Amari!" I finish.
"Maybe we should have stayed in the mine." Grumpy mumbles.
"Mines?" I ask. Suddenly interested.
"Yes," Sleepy yawns, "the gem mines."
Now this is interesting! I think to myself.
"Why don't you get some gems to show me?" I say, putting on my nicest voice. The dwarves look at each other, then shake their heads.
"Okay," I say, "let's make a deal." I smile and grab an apple from the dusty counter. "If you boys can find a diamond as big as this apple, I will clean the house for you."
They huddle together trying to decide if it's a good deal. A moment later they turn around nod.
"Come on!" Happy instructs, "Let's go!" The dwarves grab their tools and head out of the door. I stand by the door until I see them go over the hill. Just as they go over I slam the door shut and laugh.
"HA! They'll never be able to find a jewel as big as this! The apple is bigger than both my fists put together! And if they do - I'm rich!" I stop my celebrations when I hear a knock at the door. I go and open it and standing in front of me is an old beggar woman with a basket of apples.
"Don't want any." I say as I slam the door in her face. She knocks again. Getting angry I go up to the fireplace and grab a fire prod then walk back to the door. "WHAT?!" I yell as I swing open the door.
"Do you want to buy an apple?" The old hag asks.
"We're in the middle of a forest, where there are HUNDREDS of apple trees. Think lady, use your brain if you have one!" I scream, rolling my eyes.
"Ah, but one of quality like these?" she asks.
"Wait," I say, really looking at the situation. "Why is there an arbitrary old lady trying to sell me apples in the middle of an apple forest...?"
"Um... well, er..." she mumbles.
"Now," I point the fire prod at her, "leave!"
"How dare you!" The old lady proclaims. "Do you know wh-"
"Just give me an apple!" I say, not caring what she wants to tell me. I take a good look athte blood red apple that she gives me and I open my mouth as if to eat it. I watch her open her own mouth in anticipation of my bite and in that instant I shove it in between her wrinkly lips and slam the door behind me. I turn and go upstairs to take a nap.
* * * * * *
The dwarves are hard at work looking for that one big jewel so Amari will clean their house.
"No," Happy says, picking up antoher gem, "not quite." He throws it behind him.
"Oi!" Grumpy yells. All the dwarves look at him. "What will hapen if she doesn't clean?"
"Theeeee -theeeee -theeeeen -then we force her to!" Bashful replies.
"But she's not the type of person who will listen." Happy says.
"Then we drug her." Grumpy exclaims. "And once she's out of it we dump her on the midnight wagon that comes every week. Thank goodness it comes tonight!" And just like that, the dwarves had a back-up plan.
* * * * * *
"Ah," I say as the dwarves open the door. "you DID come back!"
"We sure did!" Happy says.
"And look!" Dopey says holding up a diamond the size of an apple.
"Well," I say, grabbing it and my apple. "Let's see if it's big enough."
I hold up the jewel directly in front of the apple. Only a small outline of the apple is left.
"Sorry, it's just not big enough." I smile.
"But it is!" the dwarves yell.
"No, I still see some of my apple, ergo, it isn't big enough."
The dwarves all stare at me in disbelief.
"Now," I say, sitting back in a chair. "Go make dinner, I'm hungry."
With that they all slog off to the kitchen.
"Alright," Grumpy says, "get me the sleeping powder."
"Grumpy," Happy says, "this might not be the best-"
"-Shut up." Grumpy snaps. "Unless you want her to stay and boss us around."
And so the dwarves got to work. They chopped veggies, boiled water, got spices and made a stew. The dwarves got all the bowls lined up to receive the stew.
As Grumpy dishes out the stew he keeps thinking over his plan and smiling. When Dopey comes up with his bowl Grumpy says, "Dopey, can I trust you wih Amari's bowl?"
Dopey nods with such enthusiasm that his had slips over his eyes.
"Oh dear." Grumpy mumbles while rubbing his eye with the back of a hand. "Okay, all you need to do is put in the powder. I'm going to sit at the table. Be quick."
Dopey looks for the powder and sees it on the top shelf. He goes to fetch a stepping ladder and climbing up it he reaches for the powder but only with his fingertips just touching the bottle.
He reaches further and stretches far but knocks it over, the lid flies off and powder spills into the bowl on the counter below. Dopey rushes down the little ladder and grabs a spoon to stir the powder into the stew. All the while hoping that he wasn't making too much of a mess.
* * * * * *
"HURRY UP! I'm HUNGRY!" I yell at Dopey as he walks at a painfully slow pace, trying not to spill my dinner. He puts it down in front of me and runs to his seat. I pick up my spoon and start to eat.
"Hey, this isn't half bad." I say. Just as I am about to take another spoonful I feel a very large yawn stuck in my throat, moments before I black out.
* * * * * *
And before her second bite she passes out landing face first in the stew sending droplets flying.
"DAMN IT!" Grumpy says. "How much did you put in there?" He turns to Dopey.
At that moment there is a knocking at the door.
"Coming!" Happy calls out as he rushes to reach the door. In the doorway is a very handsome man.
"Hello little men, I am a weary prince traveling back to my home, my I please use your bathro-" he looks up towards the table and sees Amari, face down in her food.
"Could it be?" He walks forward, lifting up her stew-drenched face from the bowl. "Amari! My true love!" He sweeps her up into his arms. "Come my love!" He says to an unconscious girl with bits of vegetables on her face. "We shall go to my kingdom to be wed!" And with that he walked out of the cottage.
After a moment of stunned silence the dwarves all look at Happy.
"Well, that was random. bon appetit!' Happy says and the dwarves continue living in the little cottage, glad to be rid of Princess Amari.
"For the last time -I WILL NOT CLEANT HE HOUSE!" I yell at the dwarves.
"But the book-" Happy holds up a book called Snow White.
"-is just a book which is freakishly similar to my life!" I grab it from Happy and throw it across the room. "Now," I say, "I am a princess and I refuse to do housework. That is your job." I point at the dwarves.
"But in the story it says that once you are chased by your step-motheryou'll come here and clea-" Dopey begins.
"I WILL NOT CLEAN! And I don't have a step-mother; the person trying to kill me is my REAL mother. She thinks I'm stealing her beauty. So she wants to kill me so she can get her beauty back! Ha! That crazy old hag!" I laugh.
"You're..." Bashful says, "...nothing like the story Miss Snow Whi-"
"MY NAME ISN'T SHOW WHITE! I mean, what kind of idiot would name their child that?! My name is Amari!" I finish.
"Maybe we should have stayed in the mine." Grumpy mumbles.
"Mines?" I ask. Suddenly interested.
"Yes," Sleepy yawns, "the gem mines."
Now this is interesting! I think to myself.
"Why don't you get some gems to show me?" I say, putting on my nicest voice. The dwarves look at each other, then shake their heads.
"Okay," I say, "let's make a deal." I smile and grab an apple from the dusty counter. "If you boys can find a diamond as big as this apple, I will clean the house for you."
They huddle together trying to decide if it's a good deal. A moment later they turn around nod.
"Come on!" Happy instructs, "Let's go!" The dwarves grab their tools and head out of the door. I stand by the door until I see them go over the hill. Just as they go over I slam the door shut and laugh.
"HA! They'll never be able to find a jewel as big as this! The apple is bigger than both my fists put together! And if they do - I'm rich!" I stop my celebrations when I hear a knock at the door. I go and open it and standing in front of me is an old beggar woman with a basket of apples.
"Don't want any." I say as I slam the door in her face. She knocks again. Getting angry I go up to the fireplace and grab a fire prod then walk back to the door. "WHAT?!" I yell as I swing open the door.
"Do you want to buy an apple?" The old hag asks.
"We're in the middle of a forest, where there are HUNDREDS of apple trees. Think lady, use your brain if you have one!" I scream, rolling my eyes.
"Ah, but one of quality like these?" she asks.
"Wait," I say, really looking at the situation. "Why is there an arbitrary old lady trying to sell me apples in the middle of an apple forest...?"
"Um... well, er..." she mumbles.
"Now," I point the fire prod at her, "leave!"
"How dare you!" The old lady proclaims. "Do you know wh-"
"Just give me an apple!" I say, not caring what she wants to tell me. I take a good look athte blood red apple that she gives me and I open my mouth as if to eat it. I watch her open her own mouth in anticipation of my bite and in that instant I shove it in between her wrinkly lips and slam the door behind me. I turn and go upstairs to take a nap.
* * * * * *
The dwarves are hard at work looking for that one big jewel so Amari will clean their house.
"No," Happy says, picking up antoher gem, "not quite." He throws it behind him.
"Oi!" Grumpy yells. All the dwarves look at him. "What will hapen if she doesn't clean?"
"Theeeee -theeeee -theeeeen -then we force her to!" Bashful replies.
"But she's not the type of person who will listen." Happy says.
"Then we drug her." Grumpy exclaims. "And once she's out of it we dump her on the midnight wagon that comes every week. Thank goodness it comes tonight!" And just like that, the dwarves had a back-up plan.
* * * * * *
"Ah," I say as the dwarves open the door. "you DID come back!"
"We sure did!" Happy says.
"And look!" Dopey says holding up a diamond the size of an apple.
"Well," I say, grabbing it and my apple. "Let's see if it's big enough."
I hold up the jewel directly in front of the apple. Only a small outline of the apple is left.
"Sorry, it's just not big enough." I smile.
"But it is!" the dwarves yell.
"No, I still see some of my apple, ergo, it isn't big enough."
The dwarves all stare at me in disbelief.
"Now," I say, sitting back in a chair. "Go make dinner, I'm hungry."
With that they all slog off to the kitchen.
"Alright," Grumpy says, "get me the sleeping powder."
"Grumpy," Happy says, "this might not be the best-"
"-Shut up." Grumpy snaps. "Unless you want her to stay and boss us around."
And so the dwarves got to work. They chopped veggies, boiled water, got spices and made a stew. The dwarves got all the bowls lined up to receive the stew.
As Grumpy dishes out the stew he keeps thinking over his plan and smiling. When Dopey comes up with his bowl Grumpy says, "Dopey, can I trust you wih Amari's bowl?"
Dopey nods with such enthusiasm that his had slips over his eyes.
"Oh dear." Grumpy mumbles while rubbing his eye with the back of a hand. "Okay, all you need to do is put in the powder. I'm going to sit at the table. Be quick."
Dopey looks for the powder and sees it on the top shelf. He goes to fetch a stepping ladder and climbing up it he reaches for the powder but only with his fingertips just touching the bottle.
He reaches further and stretches far but knocks it over, the lid flies off and powder spills into the bowl on the counter below. Dopey rushes down the little ladder and grabs a spoon to stir the powder into the stew. All the while hoping that he wasn't making too much of a mess.
* * * * * *
"HURRY UP! I'm HUNGRY!" I yell at Dopey as he walks at a painfully slow pace, trying not to spill my dinner. He puts it down in front of me and runs to his seat. I pick up my spoon and start to eat.
"Hey, this isn't half bad." I say. Just as I am about to take another spoonful I feel a very large yawn stuck in my throat, moments before I black out.
* * * * * *
And before her second bite she passes out landing face first in the stew sending droplets flying.
"DAMN IT!" Grumpy says. "How much did you put in there?" He turns to Dopey.
At that moment there is a knocking at the door.
"Coming!" Happy calls out as he rushes to reach the door. In the doorway is a very handsome man.
"Hello little men, I am a weary prince traveling back to my home, my I please use your bathro-" he looks up towards the table and sees Amari, face down in her food.
"Could it be?" He walks forward, lifting up her stew-drenched face from the bowl. "Amari! My true love!" He sweeps her up into his arms. "Come my love!" He says to an unconscious girl with bits of vegetables on her face. "We shall go to my kingdom to be wed!" And with that he walked out of the cottage.
After a moment of stunned silence the dwarves all look at Happy.
"Well, that was random. bon appetit!' Happy says and the dwarves continue living in the little cottage, glad to be rid of Princess Amari.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
"Comfortable Fit" by E Pienaar
"Smoke?"
The man looked up, blearily with bloodshot eyes, as if he had just woken up after a night of heavy drinking. His dark-ringed eyes darted from side to side as if suspecting a trap then, hesitatantly, he pulled his hand out from within his long overcoat and reached out for the proffered cigarette.
"Since you're offering..." responded the man in the overcoat snatching the cigarette and lightingup with a silver zippo that seemed to have slipped out from one of his sleeves. He wore fingerless gloves on hands that were as grubby as the rest of him. His haair fell long and greasy over his face which was illuminated for a brief moment as he lit up. What she saw briefly in the spark seemed to imprint itself on her memory and she could still make out the shadows of where his sunken eyes sat in the orange glow of the ash.
She sat herself down next to him on the steps and lit a cigarette for herself. Above them the drone of conversation floated down from the bright lights of the party.
"Don't quite fit in do you/" she asked the man wrinkling her nose in distaste. Sitting as his level had not relieved her of the strong odour that was wafting over from where he sat.
The man made an odd, keening noise that seemed to pass as somewhat of a snigger. He took a long drag on his cigarette, drawing it until the filter. Removing the stub from his mouth he let the pent up smoke billow out before answering, "I fit in just fine thank you; it is a large enough room afer all. How about you? Being such a big girl that room seems barefly spacious enough. You had to bend down to get through the door didn't you?" he asked, flashing a sudden grin of, amazingly enough, perfectly white teeth. The smoke still hung in the air circling the two on the steps. The man suddenly stuck out his hand, palm up and mimed puffing on cigarette with the other.
The woman was slightly flustered. Most people tended to avoid the topic of her size. Indeed, most people tended to avoid her flat out, intimidated by all seven feet of her. She brushed her long black hair out of her face as she rummaged in a purse, that seemed minute in comparison to her, in search of her pack of cigarettes. It wasn't that she was overweight or out of proportion. She was simply on a larger scale to most others.
Finding her pack, she offered the open box to her companion while smoothing down her dress, which was tailor-made to fit -but the latest in fashion. The man took four.
"I didn't mean... erm... physically out of place. I was referring to your clothes," she attempted to explain, gesturing with her large manicured hands, "-by the way, were you even on the guest list? What is your name?"
The man had unrolled the cigarettes and was busy pouring the contents into a pipe he had fished out of his coat. "I'm Bond-"
"James?"she interrupted, raising a perfectly oversized eyebrow.
"Virgil, actually," he replied, flashing another perfectly white grin. "My clothes are the clothes of my profession and I have been told that a man dressed professionally is a man worth respect." The pipe was now lit and more smoke was curling out in thick clouds that began to obscure the surroundings. "Let me tell you something," he said, blowing smoke in her face. "A tree cannot pass for a flower. One can give it petals, scent it wonderfully and have planted it in a flower bed, but the people who pass will only remark on how odd that tree looks."
The woman was shaken. She opened and closed her mouth a few times trying to find the words to respond, "And what profession is that, Mr Bond?"
Nothing could be seen from outside the smoke now. "I'm in travel," he said, "but lately I've grown a bit weary of it all. Been thinking of settling down somewhere. Maybe in a room that fits me." he looked pensively at her then, before continuing, "If you don't mind me saying, you do not fit that room and it fits you even less. Have you considered a career in travel? There's a wonderful freedom to it and with the sky as a roof I can hardly think of a better fit for you."
She could feel his eyes boring into her, holding her fixated. "Okay... what do I need to do?"
The man, Virgil Bond, spat in his hand and offered it to her. After only a moment's hesitation she spat, grasped it and shook firmly.
She reached then for a handkerchief to clean the spit from her hand but none of the pockets of her overcoat contained anything of the sort. A well manicured hand came forward with a handkerchief. Embroidered in gold at the one corner were the initials, VB.
Leaving her, a well groomed man in a tailored suit made his way back to the party at the house. Alone, she emptied out her pipe, brushed her long greasy black hair out of her haunted eyes and set off with nothing but the night sky above her.
The man looked up, blearily with bloodshot eyes, as if he had just woken up after a night of heavy drinking. His dark-ringed eyes darted from side to side as if suspecting a trap then, hesitatantly, he pulled his hand out from within his long overcoat and reached out for the proffered cigarette.
"Since you're offering..." responded the man in the overcoat snatching the cigarette and lightingup with a silver zippo that seemed to have slipped out from one of his sleeves. He wore fingerless gloves on hands that were as grubby as the rest of him. His haair fell long and greasy over his face which was illuminated for a brief moment as he lit up. What she saw briefly in the spark seemed to imprint itself on her memory and she could still make out the shadows of where his sunken eyes sat in the orange glow of the ash.
She sat herself down next to him on the steps and lit a cigarette for herself. Above them the drone of conversation floated down from the bright lights of the party.
"Don't quite fit in do you/" she asked the man wrinkling her nose in distaste. Sitting as his level had not relieved her of the strong odour that was wafting over from where he sat.
The man made an odd, keening noise that seemed to pass as somewhat of a snigger. He took a long drag on his cigarette, drawing it until the filter. Removing the stub from his mouth he let the pent up smoke billow out before answering, "I fit in just fine thank you; it is a large enough room afer all. How about you? Being such a big girl that room seems barefly spacious enough. You had to bend down to get through the door didn't you?" he asked, flashing a sudden grin of, amazingly enough, perfectly white teeth. The smoke still hung in the air circling the two on the steps. The man suddenly stuck out his hand, palm up and mimed puffing on cigarette with the other.
The woman was slightly flustered. Most people tended to avoid the topic of her size. Indeed, most people tended to avoid her flat out, intimidated by all seven feet of her. She brushed her long black hair out of her face as she rummaged in a purse, that seemed minute in comparison to her, in search of her pack of cigarettes. It wasn't that she was overweight or out of proportion. She was simply on a larger scale to most others.
Finding her pack, she offered the open box to her companion while smoothing down her dress, which was tailor-made to fit -but the latest in fashion. The man took four.
"I didn't mean... erm... physically out of place. I was referring to your clothes," she attempted to explain, gesturing with her large manicured hands, "-by the way, were you even on the guest list? What is your name?"
The man had unrolled the cigarettes and was busy pouring the contents into a pipe he had fished out of his coat. "I'm Bond-"
"James?"she interrupted, raising a perfectly oversized eyebrow.
"Virgil, actually," he replied, flashing another perfectly white grin. "My clothes are the clothes of my profession and I have been told that a man dressed professionally is a man worth respect." The pipe was now lit and more smoke was curling out in thick clouds that began to obscure the surroundings. "Let me tell you something," he said, blowing smoke in her face. "A tree cannot pass for a flower. One can give it petals, scent it wonderfully and have planted it in a flower bed, but the people who pass will only remark on how odd that tree looks."
The woman was shaken. She opened and closed her mouth a few times trying to find the words to respond, "And what profession is that, Mr Bond?"
Nothing could be seen from outside the smoke now. "I'm in travel," he said, "but lately I've grown a bit weary of it all. Been thinking of settling down somewhere. Maybe in a room that fits me." he looked pensively at her then, before continuing, "If you don't mind me saying, you do not fit that room and it fits you even less. Have you considered a career in travel? There's a wonderful freedom to it and with the sky as a roof I can hardly think of a better fit for you."
She could feel his eyes boring into her, holding her fixated. "Okay... what do I need to do?"
The man, Virgil Bond, spat in his hand and offered it to her. After only a moment's hesitation she spat, grasped it and shook firmly.
She reached then for a handkerchief to clean the spit from her hand but none of the pockets of her overcoat contained anything of the sort. A well manicured hand came forward with a handkerchief. Embroidered in gold at the one corner were the initials, VB.
Leaving her, a well groomed man in a tailored suit made his way back to the party at the house. Alone, she emptied out her pipe, brushed her long greasy black hair out of her haunted eyes and set off with nothing but the night sky above her.
"Red Cardinals -for Rae Ellen" by S Nakada
He was diagnosed with Alzheimer's at the age of fifty-two. It started with forgetting where he put the nails in his backyard shed, or forgetting what he'd done five minutes ago. he'd comment about the baseball scores and how the st Louis Cardinals would surely get to the finals that season, forgetting that they had lost to the Boston Red Sox the night before. Then he realised that he started blending time - discolouring and stripping it of its depth, he would look at the clock and realise he had wasted two hours staring at a meaningless TV screen.He took great care to hide these glitches from his wife. He told her he'd talked with a friend on his way to the grocer's and that the conversation had kept him from buying the bread and butter. He made lists of things to do each day, wrote out directions for himself when he drove around town.
And one day a visit to the doctor's confirmed his dreaded suspicions. They put him drugs, useless medication that he knew would not slow this aggressive snowball from rolling down faster, rolling his memories and brain into a still, bare echo. He'd heard of Alzheimer's. He knew it was a lost battle, a blind-folded rush to the unkown. He dreaded its avid clutches stealing away his life, and he finally understood how precious and beautiful memories were, how sweet and kind life had been to him. He wanted to cherish his remaining years. He wanted to live the rest of his life the way he'd always wanted to.
All too soon, though, he found how meaningless time was and how little difference there was between ten minutes and ten days and ten years. He rediscovered the feeling of dependency and joy at small miracles like laughter. He did not realise he moved to a nursing home. He did not remember the fear in his wife's eyes after he saw red. But for brief moments he would remember the fading imprints of the feel of his wife's hands on his. Sometimes he would bask in his chair and listen to the red cardinals from his room when he still could marvel at the beauty of nature. And when he couldn't hold his cutlery anymore and had to wear diapers his eyes still held a peace. When he couldn't speak anymore he still heard. And in his last moments, when he was just a dead living, he still felt his wife's presence, still felt his red heart pumping feebly each second. And then his heart ceased.
And a lifetime of memories flew forth.
Monday, October 18, 2010
"The Problem" by P Viljoen
The problem with thinking is that once you start it's quite hard to stop...
Creation. A term used when "something" begins to exist. This usually is an improvement for that particular "Thing" but it leaves the question, "What came before?"
A line was traced through the cosmos, this was big news. In a place where space and time were laughable ideas all of a sudden form was created.
The line grew, an irrevocable solidity which drove back the white expanse forcing one idea onto a space precariously occupied by the endless possibilities of emptiness.
Lines stretched, joined, coupled and completed. The idea grew more complex; it was no longer a single point of focus but a train of thought which was pushing back the white expanse with the irreversable ease of consciousness.
A pair of eyes. No more than black holes, grew in the centre of the focus, devouring the world for the first time and instantly forgetting the absense that came before.
A mouth, a line scratched across what was now the face of the world, just a line, an after-thought which at once gave a voice to the world but also imparted emotion to the solitary figure, just one detail was left... a name.
ERIC. V
Where do ideas go? If an idea were forgotten does it no longer exist... or does it simply go back to where it came from? All ideas are different, some strange, some profound, others simple, fleeting or absurd but this idea... ERIC. V... now he had personality.
The thing about existance is that you can't really remember what it was like before it started, thought Eric. V.
Yes, Eric thought, this had come as quite the suprise; he knew that his first thought possibly wasn't even that good.
He had stood there on the square, looking ever forward, never moving. His coal dark eyes passively boring a hole in an unending, unbroken white world, until a spark flared a single moment of awareness which flooded the dam of consciousness and spilled over its wall to anxiously become the second thought of this white, empty world.
"Well, this is boring." Followed by the first blink, yawn and scratch in an inappropriate place.
The problem with creation, thought Eric. V, while pacing the flloor of his walless cell, is that it seems to often get bored.
After the initial shock of finding himself existing in a world as interesting as a 5 000 piece puzzle of a clear sky, Eric. V promptly lost his balance and experienced gravity, fear and pain in the same instant.
Emotions spun dangerously in his mind, like a novelty chainsaw juggling act, each one rushing towards him demanding Eric. V's attention.
The chaos of instantaneous existing eventually passed and with no small amount of effort Eric. V stood and took a few tentative steps to the edge of the pure white platform on which he stood.
Time, as we all know, is truly relevant on space; so in a world filled by only one figure, who can say for sure how long he peered ignorantly over that edge, but what we do know is that Eric. V was not afraid. Curious, slightly confused, a little nauseous and slightly hungry but not afraid. How could he be, he was alone and did not know anything about...well... anything.
So he nonchalantly swung first one, then the other leg over the edge and then fell as gracefully as any slinky could have hoped for -head over heels into the endless possibilities of nothing.
For Eric. V knew deep down that there are no endings, only different beginnings.
In memory of Eric Viljoen, my grandfather that i didn't meet.
Creation. A term used when "something" begins to exist. This usually is an improvement for that particular "Thing" but it leaves the question, "What came before?"
A line was traced through the cosmos, this was big news. In a place where space and time were laughable ideas all of a sudden form was created.
The line grew, an irrevocable solidity which drove back the white expanse forcing one idea onto a space precariously occupied by the endless possibilities of emptiness.
Lines stretched, joined, coupled and completed. The idea grew more complex; it was no longer a single point of focus but a train of thought which was pushing back the white expanse with the irreversable ease of consciousness.
A pair of eyes. No more than black holes, grew in the centre of the focus, devouring the world for the first time and instantly forgetting the absense that came before.
A mouth, a line scratched across what was now the face of the world, just a line, an after-thought which at once gave a voice to the world but also imparted emotion to the solitary figure, just one detail was left... a name.
ERIC. V
Where do ideas go? If an idea were forgotten does it no longer exist... or does it simply go back to where it came from? All ideas are different, some strange, some profound, others simple, fleeting or absurd but this idea... ERIC. V... now he had personality.
The thing about existance is that you can't really remember what it was like before it started, thought Eric. V.
Yes, Eric thought, this had come as quite the suprise; he knew that his first thought possibly wasn't even that good.
He had stood there on the square, looking ever forward, never moving. His coal dark eyes passively boring a hole in an unending, unbroken white world, until a spark flared a single moment of awareness which flooded the dam of consciousness and spilled over its wall to anxiously become the second thought of this white, empty world.
"Well, this is boring." Followed by the first blink, yawn and scratch in an inappropriate place.
The problem with creation, thought Eric. V, while pacing the flloor of his walless cell, is that it seems to often get bored.
After the initial shock of finding himself existing in a world as interesting as a 5 000 piece puzzle of a clear sky, Eric. V promptly lost his balance and experienced gravity, fear and pain in the same instant.
Emotions spun dangerously in his mind, like a novelty chainsaw juggling act, each one rushing towards him demanding Eric. V's attention.
The chaos of instantaneous existing eventually passed and with no small amount of effort Eric. V stood and took a few tentative steps to the edge of the pure white platform on which he stood.
Time, as we all know, is truly relevant on space; so in a world filled by only one figure, who can say for sure how long he peered ignorantly over that edge, but what we do know is that Eric. V was not afraid. Curious, slightly confused, a little nauseous and slightly hungry but not afraid. How could he be, he was alone and did not know anything about...well... anything.
So he nonchalantly swung first one, then the other leg over the edge and then fell as gracefully as any slinky could have hoped for -head over heels into the endless possibilities of nothing.
For Eric. V knew deep down that there are no endings, only different beginnings.
In memory of Eric Viljoen, my grandfather that i didn't meet.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
"The voice of the trees" by A Wellman
As dusk set in, the sky burned crimson. Electrifying the air to the point where it was almost tangible. Setting the eerie yet perfect and repetitious atmosphere for, "story time". The human ear, it is just the mere wind, but to Nature, it is the excited and incessant rambling of the young ones.
To clarify Story Time: It is the sharing of knowledge. Shared by the story teller. The story teller always being a tree. A tree who is the wisest and oldest of them all.
The pixies join from their hollows, the soil rests where it is, the animals and plants find harmony amongst each other, the sky relaxes, the sun takes a deep breath, swalloing the remaining day, the water stills and mother earth smiles at her offspring. All is calm and all is serene. To the human ear the wind has died to a simple breeze, but to Nature the lecturer has begun his speech.
"Emily. Emily. Emily, my most beloved friend. Oh she was beautiful. Golden twirls that caressed her delicate face, while her sparkling eyes enticed anyone closer.
Emily came to me when she was very little. She came to me with her father, he tied a tyre to my branches and it made me very happy. Little Emily would swing for hours, smiling and laughing. Her locks flowing back and forth. She came to me with her mother, they were so similar. Same happy, care-free smile. The one that could make anyone smile alone no matter their problems. They would have tea parties under my shade, sometimes her teddies would join. They were very friendly and would chatter away with everyone, silently. She even came to me with boys, but that was when she was older. They would sit in each others' arms against my trunk and talk for hours. Until the sky turned pink and the mist swept across the forest floor.
Then she came to me in tears for her father had died. She sat in my branches crying and crying.
Eventually her mother came through the surrounding trees and took her home in her sleep. I didn't see her after that for a very long time. Years even.
Until one day I woke to Emily cradled over something that was nestling in my roots. It let out a high pitched laugh, identical to Emily's. It was Emily's new daughter.
I was so proud of how little Emily had turned out. They sat in my roots just enjoying life. It gave me great pleasure. That was the last day I ever saw Emily, but not Rebecca.
Rebecca came to me, just as her mother had done, and she still does."
Just then something rustled in the bushes across from the story tree. A beautiful, curly blonde-haired girl emerged and strode towards the old tree. She raised a hand and rested in gently on the chipped bark.
"Hello there old friend," Rebecca smiled.
To Rebecca, the wind brushes past her, covering and embracing her.
To clarify Story Time: It is the sharing of knowledge. Shared by the story teller. The story teller always being a tree. A tree who is the wisest and oldest of them all.
The pixies join from their hollows, the soil rests where it is, the animals and plants find harmony amongst each other, the sky relaxes, the sun takes a deep breath, swalloing the remaining day, the water stills and mother earth smiles at her offspring. All is calm and all is serene. To the human ear the wind has died to a simple breeze, but to Nature the lecturer has begun his speech.
"Emily. Emily. Emily, my most beloved friend. Oh she was beautiful. Golden twirls that caressed her delicate face, while her sparkling eyes enticed anyone closer.
Emily came to me when she was very little. She came to me with her father, he tied a tyre to my branches and it made me very happy. Little Emily would swing for hours, smiling and laughing. Her locks flowing back and forth. She came to me with her mother, they were so similar. Same happy, care-free smile. The one that could make anyone smile alone no matter their problems. They would have tea parties under my shade, sometimes her teddies would join. They were very friendly and would chatter away with everyone, silently. She even came to me with boys, but that was when she was older. They would sit in each others' arms against my trunk and talk for hours. Until the sky turned pink and the mist swept across the forest floor.
Then she came to me in tears for her father had died. She sat in my branches crying and crying.
Eventually her mother came through the surrounding trees and took her home in her sleep. I didn't see her after that for a very long time. Years even.
Until one day I woke to Emily cradled over something that was nestling in my roots. It let out a high pitched laugh, identical to Emily's. It was Emily's new daughter.
I was so proud of how little Emily had turned out. They sat in my roots just enjoying life. It gave me great pleasure. That was the last day I ever saw Emily, but not Rebecca.
Rebecca came to me, just as her mother had done, and she still does."
Just then something rustled in the bushes across from the story tree. A beautiful, curly blonde-haired girl emerged and strode towards the old tree. She raised a hand and rested in gently on the chipped bark.
"Hello there old friend," Rebecca smiled.
To Rebecca, the wind brushes past her, covering and embracing her.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
"Memory of the Best" by E Pienaar
"It was a promise, no in fact it was more than that. It was put forward as a statement. Something of certainty, not so?" The old beshrivelled man held his audience's attention with beady squinting eyes that glared out from under the wisened wrinkles that wreathed them in the centre of his old face. He was not a large person. His black, thick-soled soles barely touched the floor as he sat at the table and the long coat that swatched him seemed to suffocate him.
"One would have thought that in a small village such as this where everyone knows everyone down to the names of the geese that swim in the park's pond, you would have remembered a man as marvellous as I."
Looking at him no-one in the village's bar thought that the old man looked anything near marvellous. On closer inspection his teeth were tinged brown, his eye whites yellow and his skin and clothes covered in grime. In fact, close inspection was hardly necessary as even in a passing glance the unkeptness of the old man jumped out, mugged and left one feeling dazed.
It was the village speaker who first responded, "Aye, that is how it is, it is, so we would know you; if we should we would. An' seeing as 'ow nobody 'ere knows you, you never did live 'ere you didn't!"
"Right so Mr Speaker, truly spoken and well at that!" proclaimed Mrs Baker, who baked cakes and buns in Mr Baker's bakery, turning on the old man. "You, old dear, are either an atrocious liar or quite mad and most definitely a semblance of appearance is not one of your marvellous qualities I'm afraid. Quite rude as well I might add, not even supplying a name."
"Well spoken? Madam, I beg to differ! Mr Speaker, pardon me for saying so but, the fact of the matter is that you cannot speak." Mr Speaker stood up indignantly, his face red and eyes bulging.
His words came through gritted teeth, "We Speakers have been speaking since me father's father's father's father. It 'ent easy what I do, you think you could do a better job?"
"Well that goes without saying, but say it I shall! My mastery of the spoken word can hardly be compared to the primitive grunts of your rasping voice!"
The man stood up to his rather unimpressive height, "Mr Saul Bester!" he declared, turning back to Mrs Baker, "And best you remember it!"
"One would have thought that in a small village such as this where everyone knows everyone down to the names of the geese that swim in the park's pond, you would have remembered a man as marvellous as I."
Looking at him no-one in the village's bar thought that the old man looked anything near marvellous. On closer inspection his teeth were tinged brown, his eye whites yellow and his skin and clothes covered in grime. In fact, close inspection was hardly necessary as even in a passing glance the unkeptness of the old man jumped out, mugged and left one feeling dazed.
It was the village speaker who first responded, "Aye, that is how it is, it is, so we would know you; if we should we would. An' seeing as 'ow nobody 'ere knows you, you never did live 'ere you didn't!"
"Right so Mr Speaker, truly spoken and well at that!" proclaimed Mrs Baker, who baked cakes and buns in Mr Baker's bakery, turning on the old man. "You, old dear, are either an atrocious liar or quite mad and most definitely a semblance of appearance is not one of your marvellous qualities I'm afraid. Quite rude as well I might add, not even supplying a name."
"Well spoken? Madam, I beg to differ! Mr Speaker, pardon me for saying so but, the fact of the matter is that you cannot speak." Mr Speaker stood up indignantly, his face red and eyes bulging.
His words came through gritted teeth, "We Speakers have been speaking since me father's father's father's father. It 'ent easy what I do, you think you could do a better job?"
"Well that goes without saying, but say it I shall! My mastery of the spoken word can hardly be compared to the primitive grunts of your rasping voice!"
The man stood up to his rather unimpressive height, "Mr Saul Bester!" he declared, turning back to Mrs Baker, "And best you remember it!"
"Eternal Memory" by L Kingwill
The box is nearly full. Straightening up, I glanced around, looking for anything I missed. It's all here: your glasses, watch, empty wallet, shaving gear, a belt that somehow hadn't been taken with the rest... it seems surprisingly little. I stand still, suddenly aware of sounds travelling up from downstairs. I probably should have been down there ages ago, but I don't move. Instead I anxiously look around again, seeking a distraction, an escape, before reality can penetrate completely. It's the letters that catch my eye; the gleaming gold "PHOTO ALBUM" reflecting the sunlight. I stare for a second, hesitating, then take it off the shelf. The worn red leather is rough and heavy in my hands.
The first is a baby photo, you're perhaps a week old. You sleep with your fists clenched, eyes squeezed tightly shut. A Winnie the Pooh dummy has fallen out ofyour mouth, forming a damp spot on the pillow. "First night in own cot!" reads the inscription below.
Three pages further and you have a fierce frown, flying down a short tar driveway. Eyes wide, mouth open and blonde curls flying, you grip your first bicycle's handlebars tightly, your legs kicked out high above the safety wheels. A red superman cape streams behind you: party hats and cups litter the background. A woman in a floral skirt bends over to pick them up, her back to the camera.
The Matric dance and my entrance. It's the only photo I agreed to that night. The bright light shines on us, you with your tailor-made tux, easy smile and those tussled curls. I smiled timidly in my homespun dress and borrowed high heels, trying to look confident. The jewel-coloured fabrics draping the surroundings seem to enclose us into a perfect portrait.
A wedding photo, taken from a distance without us realizing it. It's late in the evening already, my satin dress gleams faintly in the darkness. Your outline blends into the lake behind us. I lean with my head against your chest, your hand is about to touch my hair.
There we are in Park Town maternity clinic. A nurse must have taken the picture - idiotic but proud and excited smiles shape both our faces. Between us, only a small arm manages to push its way through the swaddle of blankets, reaching up its tiny fingers.
The last page, again in hospital. No smiles now, no matter how hard you tried. The fluorescent light reflects off your bald head, your sunken eyes stare despondently at the camera. Next to you are drawings of stick figures in bright pastel colours. It comes back to me now, the smell of the disinfectant, the sound of crying children and chatting nurses, the machine's endless beep beep beep...
The album falls through my shaking hands to land with a thud on the floor. I stare hard at it, aware that the picture is beginning to blur. From downstairs the sound of murmured voices and clinking glass drifts up to me, surrounds me, breaking through the haze, forcing me to listen. I rush through the glass doors onto the veranda, gasping the fresh sea air. It cools the tears on my face.
His footsteps are so light that I not realise he is there until a small warm hand slips into mine.
"Mommy?" Anxious grey eyes stare up at me from under a mop of tussled blonde hair.
"Mommy, Ouma says it's time to come down now."
For a second, I stare across the street to the constant rolling waves of the ocean.
"It's alright, honey. I'm coming."
I let him lead me back into the room and downstairs. When we enter, I smile.
The first is a baby photo, you're perhaps a week old. You sleep with your fists clenched, eyes squeezed tightly shut. A Winnie the Pooh dummy has fallen out ofyour mouth, forming a damp spot on the pillow. "First night in own cot!" reads the inscription below.
Three pages further and you have a fierce frown, flying down a short tar driveway. Eyes wide, mouth open and blonde curls flying, you grip your first bicycle's handlebars tightly, your legs kicked out high above the safety wheels. A red superman cape streams behind you: party hats and cups litter the background. A woman in a floral skirt bends over to pick them up, her back to the camera.
The Matric dance and my entrance. It's the only photo I agreed to that night. The bright light shines on us, you with your tailor-made tux, easy smile and those tussled curls. I smiled timidly in my homespun dress and borrowed high heels, trying to look confident. The jewel-coloured fabrics draping the surroundings seem to enclose us into a perfect portrait.
A wedding photo, taken from a distance without us realizing it. It's late in the evening already, my satin dress gleams faintly in the darkness. Your outline blends into the lake behind us. I lean with my head against your chest, your hand is about to touch my hair.
There we are in Park Town maternity clinic. A nurse must have taken the picture - idiotic but proud and excited smiles shape both our faces. Between us, only a small arm manages to push its way through the swaddle of blankets, reaching up its tiny fingers.
The last page, again in hospital. No smiles now, no matter how hard you tried. The fluorescent light reflects off your bald head, your sunken eyes stare despondently at the camera. Next to you are drawings of stick figures in bright pastel colours. It comes back to me now, the smell of the disinfectant, the sound of crying children and chatting nurses, the machine's endless beep beep beep...
The album falls through my shaking hands to land with a thud on the floor. I stare hard at it, aware that the picture is beginning to blur. From downstairs the sound of murmured voices and clinking glass drifts up to me, surrounds me, breaking through the haze, forcing me to listen. I rush through the glass doors onto the veranda, gasping the fresh sea air. It cools the tears on my face.
His footsteps are so light that I not realise he is there until a small warm hand slips into mine.
"Mommy?" Anxious grey eyes stare up at me from under a mop of tussled blonde hair.
"Mommy, Ouma says it's time to come down now."
For a second, I stare across the street to the constant rolling waves of the ocean.
"It's alright, honey. I'm coming."
I let him lead me back into the room and downstairs. When we enter, I smile.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
"It was a pleasure to burn" by Alexander Schwalb
"It was a pleasure to burn," said Amelia van Delizor to the grim reaper. "No, honestly. When they lit the fire I had pure delight. Even if they didn't tie me up, I still wouldn't have tried to escape." Grim just look at her and had a look in the cavity where his eyes should be that said, "Oh no, not another crazy one."
They were on a small boat on the River Styx. It was night, but there were no stars in the sky.
The light from Grim's lantern didn't travel far in the thick mist. Grim started speaking. You could see his jaw bones moving, but his deep voice was coming from all around. It make faint ripples in the flat, dreary water around the boat. He said to Amelia, "It's a long trip to... you know where you are going. Tell me about your life story."
"My mom died giving birth to me in 1818 in England. It was probably then when I developed my unique syndrome. Ever since I could remember, I loved getting hurt. My father was one of the leading biologists in that time. He sad there were two connections in my brain that crossed and therefore I perceived pain as pleasure.
When I was eleven, my father never returned from the woods after hunting. The street was my new home. I would have gone hungry for weeks. I could only drink muddy water from the puddles. The sky was my roof, but it had some leaking problems. I was a vagabond at the bottom of the chain of being. Most would have hated my life, but I loved it. It was my
paradise to be freezing at night and being so hungry it hurt. I loved everything from the rashes and sores to the rat bites and infections.
After a few years I unfortunately became used to the pain, and I had to find new ways to hurt myself. I would usually run into walls at full pace or jump off of houses. I would damage other people's property so that they would hurt me. Everyone knew me by my surname, Van Delizor. It became a new term, that if someone damanged someone else's goods, you would that they vandalize.
People came from far and away to see me hurt myself. When the king heard of me, he hired me to entertain him. Those were the best years of my life, because in the castle, they had torture machines. The king offered me my own royal chamber, but I chose to sleep outside. Sadly, there were no rats near the castle.
The archbishop did not like me, so he convinced the king to send me back to live with the peasants. It wasn't the same without the torture devices, so things went bad. I started stealing pitchforks to stab myself. I drank poison every night. I ate my own flesh!
By now, people had grown tired of me. They accused me of being a witch.
Then came the happiest few minutes of my life -my death. I was publically burned. It is obvious that if one's ultimate pleasure is pain, then one's happiest moment in life is death. That day, the last Van Delizor died."
In the distance, Amelia saw the shore at the end of the River Styx. The small boat stopped in the sand. There were two inter-dimensional doors. The Grim Reaper said, "All witches go through the left door, so will you. I am sorry. You seem so friendly, but it's not my decision to make." Amelia replied, "Don't be sorry, I am going to love this!"
They were on a small boat on the River Styx. It was night, but there were no stars in the sky.
The light from Grim's lantern didn't travel far in the thick mist. Grim started speaking. You could see his jaw bones moving, but his deep voice was coming from all around. It make faint ripples in the flat, dreary water around the boat. He said to Amelia, "It's a long trip to... you know where you are going. Tell me about your life story."
"My mom died giving birth to me in 1818 in England. It was probably then when I developed my unique syndrome. Ever since I could remember, I loved getting hurt. My father was one of the leading biologists in that time. He sad there were two connections in my brain that crossed and therefore I perceived pain as pleasure.
When I was eleven, my father never returned from the woods after hunting. The street was my new home. I would have gone hungry for weeks. I could only drink muddy water from the puddles. The sky was my roof, but it had some leaking problems. I was a vagabond at the bottom of the chain of being. Most would have hated my life, but I loved it. It was my
paradise to be freezing at night and being so hungry it hurt. I loved everything from the rashes and sores to the rat bites and infections.
After a few years I unfortunately became used to the pain, and I had to find new ways to hurt myself. I would usually run into walls at full pace or jump off of houses. I would damage other people's property so that they would hurt me. Everyone knew me by my surname, Van Delizor. It became a new term, that if someone damanged someone else's goods, you would that they vandalize.
People came from far and away to see me hurt myself. When the king heard of me, he hired me to entertain him. Those were the best years of my life, because in the castle, they had torture machines. The king offered me my own royal chamber, but I chose to sleep outside. Sadly, there were no rats near the castle.
The archbishop did not like me, so he convinced the king to send me back to live with the peasants. It wasn't the same without the torture devices, so things went bad. I started stealing pitchforks to stab myself. I drank poison every night. I ate my own flesh!
By now, people had grown tired of me. They accused me of being a witch.
Then came the happiest few minutes of my life -my death. I was publically burned. It is obvious that if one's ultimate pleasure is pain, then one's happiest moment in life is death. That day, the last Van Delizor died."
In the distance, Amelia saw the shore at the end of the River Styx. The small boat stopped in the sand. There were two inter-dimensional doors. The Grim Reaper said, "All witches go through the left door, so will you. I am sorry. You seem so friendly, but it's not my decision to make." Amelia replied, "Don't be sorry, I am going to love this!"
You may wish to read more about women like Amelia who were accused of witchcraft in Salem in 1692 at http://www.eyewitnesstohistory.com/salem.htm
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
"What I Fear" by Sonya Linkov
Boys should not be touched. No, should not be brushed against. Every extra kilogram; every twinge of nausea must be investigated. Menstruation days must be crossed off with joyous red ink. My greatest fear creeps from within, siphoning blood and stretching tissues and enslaving the body.
Pregnancy.
I suffer from chronic stomach pains, with a nervous habit of clutching my stomach as I walk, and a day without nausea is inconceivable. Dr Hosking put it down to anxiety, folded his hands together and said that, unfortunately, there is not much he can do for me. But I know that it is a warning, or a premonition. The hollow teardrop-shaped shrine within me is protesting, punishing me and punishing the world which created it.
Young girls are taught to fear the consequences: the parents' rage; the lost childhood and education; the slow trickling away of society. Yet worse than the tears and the closed future and the judgment, I fear the thing itself: wrapping my body around itself, then emerging in a scarlet flood with blinking eyelashes like whips, taking in the world and plotting how to rule it.
On the beach, in the supermarket, on the school grounds even, I scan every passing girl's or woman's stomach with wide eyes. Should I see one straining against clothes, the initial desperate urge to find a restroom is replaced by curiosity about the woman. Furtively, like a smitten boy, I peer at her face. Usually serence as a marble Madonna-to-be; never hateful. I lower my eyes in guilt. As she moves on, my eyes stray upwards again, and I peel away the cradle of membranes, blood and amniotic fluid.
A dumb swimmer, neatly folded like a picture in the midwifery textbook. Gilled like a fish and beaked like a bird. A little heart and a little brain like red cherries in a warm, bloody jelly. A blameless criminal, hung on a rope that can resurrect or strangle. An alien. A monster...
Babies. Everywhere I look; babies in prams, babies on television, babies on the tongues of women as they balance their teacups and slices of cake... I wonder, do a woman's hopes and dreams, her drive for autonomy, her power - in short, everything that separates her from an egg-laying hen - blow away like paper birds at that first cry?
Could I end a life? That is the question that looms out of the deep. Plastic dolls in sterile buckets. The grime-coated inside of a shack, and a woman with a coat-hanger. Cord-strangled ditch-delivereds. How much can the nervous systems stretching their feathery fingers through the little body feel? And yet, is it not better to die innocent than to live the life of a timid forest creature amongst refuse bags, fight crows for another bread crust, run as Mother hurls a punch or a knife...? Better I will not be able to offer.
I think about childbirth. The cold steel torture tale, my belly obscuring view; the doctors shouting inanities whilst judging; hating. All this time, the pain, the ocean of pain; screaming; my alien stomach hanging marble-heavy around my head, and then once every drop of strength has been wrung out of me as though I am a scrap of washing, the screaming of another voice...
The vision fades in oily slicks of nausea as I imagine the baby, plump and smiling, in a pram sprigged with ribbons. First tentative steps; every gurgle a mispronounced first word.
The love sticks in my throat, and I turn away.
Pregnancy.
I suffer from chronic stomach pains, with a nervous habit of clutching my stomach as I walk, and a day without nausea is inconceivable. Dr Hosking put it down to anxiety, folded his hands together and said that, unfortunately, there is not much he can do for me. But I know that it is a warning, or a premonition. The hollow teardrop-shaped shrine within me is protesting, punishing me and punishing the world which created it.
Young girls are taught to fear the consequences: the parents' rage; the lost childhood and education; the slow trickling away of society. Yet worse than the tears and the closed future and the judgment, I fear the thing itself: wrapping my body around itself, then emerging in a scarlet flood with blinking eyelashes like whips, taking in the world and plotting how to rule it.
On the beach, in the supermarket, on the school grounds even, I scan every passing girl's or woman's stomach with wide eyes. Should I see one straining against clothes, the initial desperate urge to find a restroom is replaced by curiosity about the woman. Furtively, like a smitten boy, I peer at her face. Usually serence as a marble Madonna-to-be; never hateful. I lower my eyes in guilt. As she moves on, my eyes stray upwards again, and I peel away the cradle of membranes, blood and amniotic fluid.
A dumb swimmer, neatly folded like a picture in the midwifery textbook. Gilled like a fish and beaked like a bird. A little heart and a little brain like red cherries in a warm, bloody jelly. A blameless criminal, hung on a rope that can resurrect or strangle. An alien. A monster...
Babies. Everywhere I look; babies in prams, babies on television, babies on the tongues of women as they balance their teacups and slices of cake... I wonder, do a woman's hopes and dreams, her drive for autonomy, her power - in short, everything that separates her from an egg-laying hen - blow away like paper birds at that first cry?
Could I end a life? That is the question that looms out of the deep. Plastic dolls in sterile buckets. The grime-coated inside of a shack, and a woman with a coat-hanger. Cord-strangled ditch-delivereds. How much can the nervous systems stretching their feathery fingers through the little body feel? And yet, is it not better to die innocent than to live the life of a timid forest creature amongst refuse bags, fight crows for another bread crust, run as Mother hurls a punch or a knife...? Better I will not be able to offer.
I think about childbirth. The cold steel torture tale, my belly obscuring view; the doctors shouting inanities whilst judging; hating. All this time, the pain, the ocean of pain; screaming; my alien stomach hanging marble-heavy around my head, and then once every drop of strength has been wrung out of me as though I am a scrap of washing, the screaming of another voice...
The vision fades in oily slicks of nausea as I imagine the baby, plump and smiling, in a pram sprigged with ribbons. First tentative steps; every gurgle a mispronounced first word.
The love sticks in my throat, and I turn away.
"Over the Edge" by Emma Tough
Unlike most teenagers I was not interested in my image or status. I did not care for gadgets or accessories. Relationships, as well as friendships, were beyond me. There was only one thing that mattered in life and that was flying.
I would wake up early every Saturday morning and make my way to the bumpy farm runway. Billy, the old manager, would take me up and we would circle until we reached a thousand feet. Billy would then press the releae button, the door would shoot open, I would count slowly to five, take a deep breath and then jump.
There is nothing like the feeling of falling at terminal velocity, knowing that the parachute might not open but not caring. All you can see through blurry, watery eyes is the earth moving slowly towards you. The wind rushes past your ears, drumming out all thought. My body was pummelled and moulded by just the sheer force of the air. Nothing and no one mattered in that moment, except me.
After a matter of seconds I would pull the parachute and make my slow decent onto the field. Those last few minutes hanging in the air under a great cloud of silk were always filled with excitement and disbelief at what I had just experienced.
There is nothing in the world as freeing and uplifting as stepping out of your box and over the edge.
I would wake up early every Saturday morning and make my way to the bumpy farm runway. Billy, the old manager, would take me up and we would circle until we reached a thousand feet. Billy would then press the releae button, the door would shoot open, I would count slowly to five, take a deep breath and then jump.
There is nothing like the feeling of falling at terminal velocity, knowing that the parachute might not open but not caring. All you can see through blurry, watery eyes is the earth moving slowly towards you. The wind rushes past your ears, drumming out all thought. My body was pummelled and moulded by just the sheer force of the air. Nothing and no one mattered in that moment, except me.
After a matter of seconds I would pull the parachute and make my slow decent onto the field. Those last few minutes hanging in the air under a great cloud of silk were always filled with excitement and disbelief at what I had just experienced.
There is nothing in the world as freeing and uplifting as stepping out of your box and over the edge.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
"A simple mistake" by Gabriella Llennity
"It was only a simple mistake," mother would say to me each time father cheated on her. I could see she resented my father, but it would be too much of an embarrassment for mother, since her only friends were of high society. The other reason she stayed with father was because of my sister, Angela, and I. She didn't want us to come from a broken home or to see that her marriage was a failure, even though we could hear them screaming and shouting at each other every night.
We never saw father much, and when we did he was always too busy to spend time with us. Mother always tried to teach us to stand our ground against people who caused trouble for us; she did not want her babies making the same mistakes she had already made. If father ever did something wrong it was always a 'simple mistake'. If we ever did anything wrong, we were disciplined, and were taught the right way. Not like father. We were not let off as easily as father was. My mother believed in us, which I could see in her. Everything she did was usually for Angela and I. Father worked for a big important company so whenever there were suppers or evening parties, we were summoned to silence unless spoken to.
Mother was very displeased with father's work, as every few years it meant that we would have to move to another town. Father's boss had big ideas for him, so it means we simply had to obey. I do not believe mother was ever happy in her marriage. She probably only faked it when father needed her to impress his boss or his own high society friends.
If Angela or I ever became scared we could turn to mother for absolutely anything. I loved that about her. I wonder who she turns to when something bad happens to her; since grandmother and grandfather have both already passed, she does not really have many people to turn to. I do not suppose her friends would ever really care either. They are all to worried about themselves to be concerned about mother. That is what husbands are supposed to be for, I suppose, but mother was deprived of that benefit in marriage. I suppose that is what builds a person; makes them stronger. I suppose that is why mother is the way she is.
It is rather unfortunate. Mother deserves better than father, though she keeps putting up with his "dealings". As the daughter of a well established and respected man, I suppose I should have respect for him but I do not. I wonder what Angela thinks of father. Although I do not suppose she knows how to diagnose the whole situation.
I wonder why father cheats on mother so much. I wonder if he even still loves her, and why he even remains in their marriage.
When we were younger, Angela and I would be sent off to our Aunt Grace, mother's sister. From the very beginning Aunt Grace had despised father. She simply could not stand him, she knew it would never work but mother was young and in love. Mother and father sent us to aunt Grace because they said that they needed some "alone time" which did not mean together to build their relationship, what it really meant was that mother was getting tired of life and needed to go the spa and father was probably home and could not deal with us so they would send us to aunt Grace. the only reason that mother was becoming tired of life was because father's dealings were like fire to mother, and she was helpless wood. These dealings would slowly eat away at her until she turned to ash and needed some rejuvenating. they worked from the outside in, melting her down piece by piece. Mother and father's fights are the smoke of the fire, the outcome of father's 'dealings'.
Father's number one priority was his job and then his possessions. One time, when I was younger, I took some papers off father's desk and started drawing. When father discovered me decorating his documents, I tried to make the same as him, I said, "But daddy, it was only a mistake."
Well, that definitely did not work in the same way as when father said it to mother. From that day on I never took anything from his office, or anything he owned for a matter of fact, ever, ever again. I can still remember his face when he found me, enraged, full of anger he grabbed me and said, "Do not ever touch my things again Abigail. Understood?"
I could not even look into his eyes; he scared me to death that day.
I wonder why mother even married him in the first place. And if father ever really loved mother. Perhaps they were in love at first, and it just slowly faded because of father's job. It must have, because they rarely ever even hold hands or hug one another, and father always speaks to mother in a very monotonous voice. Perhaps I was a mistake, a summer romance that went wrong, and they were forced to get married, and then to make it all look real they had Angela. I wonder perhaps if my father's parents' relationship was the same, and that's where father learned all this.
Perhaps mother did not know in the beginning about father's dealings. Perhaps it only started when father stopped showing any affection to mopther, or perhpas he never did show any affection at all to mother because his life ended when mother got pregnant. Perhaps their whole marriage and Angela and mother and I were all just another big mistake.
We never saw father much, and when we did he was always too busy to spend time with us. Mother always tried to teach us to stand our ground against people who caused trouble for us; she did not want her babies making the same mistakes she had already made. If father ever did something wrong it was always a 'simple mistake'. If we ever did anything wrong, we were disciplined, and were taught the right way. Not like father. We were not let off as easily as father was. My mother believed in us, which I could see in her. Everything she did was usually for Angela and I. Father worked for a big important company so whenever there were suppers or evening parties, we were summoned to silence unless spoken to.
Mother was very displeased with father's work, as every few years it meant that we would have to move to another town. Father's boss had big ideas for him, so it means we simply had to obey. I do not believe mother was ever happy in her marriage. She probably only faked it when father needed her to impress his boss or his own high society friends.
If Angela or I ever became scared we could turn to mother for absolutely anything. I loved that about her. I wonder who she turns to when something bad happens to her; since grandmother and grandfather have both already passed, she does not really have many people to turn to. I do not suppose her friends would ever really care either. They are all to worried about themselves to be concerned about mother. That is what husbands are supposed to be for, I suppose, but mother was deprived of that benefit in marriage. I suppose that is what builds a person; makes them stronger. I suppose that is why mother is the way she is.
It is rather unfortunate. Mother deserves better than father, though she keeps putting up with his "dealings". As the daughter of a well established and respected man, I suppose I should have respect for him but I do not. I wonder what Angela thinks of father. Although I do not suppose she knows how to diagnose the whole situation.
I wonder why father cheats on mother so much. I wonder if he even still loves her, and why he even remains in their marriage.
When we were younger, Angela and I would be sent off to our Aunt Grace, mother's sister. From the very beginning Aunt Grace had despised father. She simply could not stand him, she knew it would never work but mother was young and in love. Mother and father sent us to aunt Grace because they said that they needed some "alone time" which did not mean together to build their relationship, what it really meant was that mother was getting tired of life and needed to go the spa and father was probably home and could not deal with us so they would send us to aunt Grace. the only reason that mother was becoming tired of life was because father's dealings were like fire to mother, and she was helpless wood. These dealings would slowly eat away at her until she turned to ash and needed some rejuvenating. they worked from the outside in, melting her down piece by piece. Mother and father's fights are the smoke of the fire, the outcome of father's 'dealings'.
Father's number one priority was his job and then his possessions. One time, when I was younger, I took some papers off father's desk and started drawing. When father discovered me decorating his documents, I tried to make the same as him, I said, "But daddy, it was only a mistake."
Well, that definitely did not work in the same way as when father said it to mother. From that day on I never took anything from his office, or anything he owned for a matter of fact, ever, ever again. I can still remember his face when he found me, enraged, full of anger he grabbed me and said, "Do not ever touch my things again Abigail. Understood?"
I could not even look into his eyes; he scared me to death that day.
I wonder why mother even married him in the first place. And if father ever really loved mother. Perhaps they were in love at first, and it just slowly faded because of father's job. It must have, because they rarely ever even hold hands or hug one another, and father always speaks to mother in a very monotonous voice. Perhaps I was a mistake, a summer romance that went wrong, and they were forced to get married, and then to make it all look real they had Angela. I wonder perhaps if my father's parents' relationship was the same, and that's where father learned all this.
Perhaps mother did not know in the beginning about father's dealings. Perhaps it only started when father stopped showing any affection to mopther, or perhpas he never did show any affection at all to mother because his life ended when mother got pregnant. Perhaps their whole marriage and Angela and mother and I were all just another big mistake.
Monday, August 2, 2010
"A Shaft of Light" by A Hendricks
Silence filled the dense air. Time slowed. I felt my heartbeat in my ears. Across the room I could see nothing. Darkness. Emptiness. The likes of which no human can imagine. I had been here for so long, I reeked of it. Years of decay and neglect. Incomprehensible pain and suffering. Torment beyond recognition. Before I laughed; now I cry. Prison is horror and I its victim.
I sit in a corner. It is uncomfortable. It is my home. My life was destroyed long ago. Nothing can take away the misery. My family was my only source of joy. My children gifts from Heaven. I loved them more than life itself.
Governments, police, enforcers... I was once one of them. Now I despise them. They cause me this life. I live in solitary because of them. I lost my way, my family and my life because of them.
I am old and weak. A remnant of a lost race. I cannot walk. My hands bleed. My feet rot. My soul is dead.
I once believed in God. He used to love me. I used to pray and speak to him. He betrayed me. He allowed them to take my family. They raped my wife and slit her throat. They dismembered my children and burnt them on stakes. They broke my bones and left me to die.
As I sit, I stare into the darkness. It speaks to me. Tells me of my family: how they miss me. I cannot take it any longer. For twenty years I sat in this spot. Every night the darkness torments me. I am helpless and weak. It has developed a hold on me.
The people I killed haunt me. I see their faces. They stare at me in pity. They pity the old man waiting to die. All I wish is to be free of this place. To be free of anxiety. To be free of the torment of my mind.
As I stare into the darkness, a voice beckons me. I see a pair of familiar eyes in the darkness -a familiar nose and smile. I must be dreaming. I am not. My son speaks to me and commands me to stand. I do. He tells me it's all over. He says I am free. I am told to look up. A powerful voice speaks to me. I see a bright shaft of white light. It consumes me, yet I cannot feel it.
The light lifts a part of me I have not known for a very long time. That part leaves me. I see it rise and become lost in the light.
As the light fades I feel empty. More than ever. My soul is gone. It has been taken. I have no memory, but I do not care. I am very tired. As I close my eyes I breathe in the cold, and as I exhale, I know that that breath is my last.
I sit in a corner. It is uncomfortable. It is my home. My life was destroyed long ago. Nothing can take away the misery. My family was my only source of joy. My children gifts from Heaven. I loved them more than life itself.
Governments, police, enforcers... I was once one of them. Now I despise them. They cause me this life. I live in solitary because of them. I lost my way, my family and my life because of them.
I am old and weak. A remnant of a lost race. I cannot walk. My hands bleed. My feet rot. My soul is dead.
I once believed in God. He used to love me. I used to pray and speak to him. He betrayed me. He allowed them to take my family. They raped my wife and slit her throat. They dismembered my children and burnt them on stakes. They broke my bones and left me to die.
As I sit, I stare into the darkness. It speaks to me. Tells me of my family: how they miss me. I cannot take it any longer. For twenty years I sat in this spot. Every night the darkness torments me. I am helpless and weak. It has developed a hold on me.
The people I killed haunt me. I see their faces. They stare at me in pity. They pity the old man waiting to die. All I wish is to be free of this place. To be free of anxiety. To be free of the torment of my mind.
As I stare into the darkness, a voice beckons me. I see a pair of familiar eyes in the darkness -a familiar nose and smile. I must be dreaming. I am not. My son speaks to me and commands me to stand. I do. He tells me it's all over. He says I am free. I am told to look up. A powerful voice speaks to me. I see a bright shaft of white light. It consumes me, yet I cannot feel it.
The light lifts a part of me I have not known for a very long time. That part leaves me. I see it rise and become lost in the light.
As the light fades I feel empty. More than ever. My soul is gone. It has been taken. I have no memory, but I do not care. I am very tired. As I close my eyes I breathe in the cold, and as I exhale, I know that that breath is my last.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
"The Maiden Voyage" by David Berndt -Grade 8
The rusty crane towered proudly over the concrete dockside, as it stretched into the misty air, powerfully hoisting out the remains of the most futuristic ship ever built. It was cold and the moisture didn't help the fast-spreading rust as it consumed everything metallic.
The RSS Emerald was beautiful. She sported a racy bow that could be propelled through heavy seas at up to 55 knots, thanks to its hydromagnetotechnodynamic engines. These are supposed to be experimental, but were made especially for this magnificent research cruiser.
The ship had a length of 362 ft and a beam of 80 ft. That made her very fast, and a certified ice-breaker capable of ploughing through 11 ft of ice. It really was the perfect research vessel.
Launched as Simonstown harbour, Captain Hendrik Botha would take her on her maiden voyage to Buenos Aires, where the ship would take on her multi-million dollar submersibles.
The Emerald was breaking records on her voyage; she was setting a time record in arriving at Buenos Aires, reaching speeds of 65 knots on the glassy smooth water.
Captain Botha was a tall, barrel-chested man with piercing green eyes complimented by closely cropped blonde hair. He was proud, but also angry, because the South African dry-dock was slow and had caused delays in the build, so he had to make for lost time.
* * *
The dark figures moved like ghosts through the misty evening. They were good and quickly found what they were looking for. The turquoise bow of the Emerald stood proudly over the concrete dock pilings, an easy target for these experienced men. Even the Emerald's double hull didn't deter them.
They opened their duffel bags and donned the scuba gear inside them. They slipped in and out of the water, unnoticed.
* * *
Muffled explosions filled the cabins of the once peacefully docked ship. "Abandon ship!" shouted Captain Botha repeatedly. It was all unexpected to say the least, but at least the evacuation was going smoothly.
The helmsman's behaviour, strange and forced under such conditions did not go unnoticed though everyone had more pressing things on their mind.
* * *
It was cold and the moisture didn't help the fast-spreading rust from consuming everything metallic. The remains of the RSS Emerald rose steadily higher as the crane reached its load capacity.
"It's clear how it happened," said the short helmsman, "but why is another concern."
"It's competition from other companies," said Botha, "and you should know all about it." With that, Captain Hendrik Botha drew his .44 Calibre and shot the helmsman square in the head.
The RSS Emerald was beautiful. She sported a racy bow that could be propelled through heavy seas at up to 55 knots, thanks to its hydromagnetotechnodynamic engines. These are supposed to be experimental, but were made especially for this magnificent research cruiser.
The ship had a length of 362 ft and a beam of 80 ft. That made her very fast, and a certified ice-breaker capable of ploughing through 11 ft of ice. It really was the perfect research vessel.
Launched as Simonstown harbour, Captain Hendrik Botha would take her on her maiden voyage to Buenos Aires, where the ship would take on her multi-million dollar submersibles.
The Emerald was breaking records on her voyage; she was setting a time record in arriving at Buenos Aires, reaching speeds of 65 knots on the glassy smooth water.
Captain Botha was a tall, barrel-chested man with piercing green eyes complimented by closely cropped blonde hair. He was proud, but also angry, because the South African dry-dock was slow and had caused delays in the build, so he had to make for lost time.
* * *
The dark figures moved like ghosts through the misty evening. They were good and quickly found what they were looking for. The turquoise bow of the Emerald stood proudly over the concrete dock pilings, an easy target for these experienced men. Even the Emerald's double hull didn't deter them.
They opened their duffel bags and donned the scuba gear inside them. They slipped in and out of the water, unnoticed.
* * *
Muffled explosions filled the cabins of the once peacefully docked ship. "Abandon ship!" shouted Captain Botha repeatedly. It was all unexpected to say the least, but at least the evacuation was going smoothly.
The helmsman's behaviour, strange and forced under such conditions did not go unnoticed though everyone had more pressing things on their mind.
* * *
It was cold and the moisture didn't help the fast-spreading rust from consuming everything metallic. The remains of the RSS Emerald rose steadily higher as the crane reached its load capacity.
"It's clear how it happened," said the short helmsman, "but why is another concern."
"It's competition from other companies," said Botha, "and you should know all about it." With that, Captain Hendrik Botha drew his .44 Calibre and shot the helmsman square in the head.
"The Eleventh Hour" by Jessica Chambers -Grade 8
From the first day I arrived in India I felt alone, like I was on the other side of the world I knew, South Carolina, my home. The Ganges is nothing like it says in the travel guide; nothing like the cheerful crowds and exquisite smells I had been expecting. Only the thick purple clouds that hide the daylight and the strong smell of burning corpses.
The thick, purple smoke that fills my lungs now makes me feel dirty, like a murderer to all those who've gone before, those who have been cremated under their own will and those under the will of others. The first thing I noticed in the chaos of priests and worshippers was that I was the only pale skin, the only tourist, and to every beggar, someone with money.
I was hustled by them, shoved away when I said no and held close every time I mentioned money. These people's stares as sharp as the knife that they may as well have held at my neck. Begging, pleading for the extra cash they would do anything to have in their pockets.
I'd known I couldn't stay there forever, so pushing my way through the violence I headed towards the river, towards the crematorium, the last place I had seen the mysterious old priest who had handed me the delicate, golden pocket watch that I now held tightly in my right hand.
"Protect this as if it were your life." I remember him saying.
I'd noticed this man earlier on today when I got off the Rickshaw that had delivered me to my hotel. He was sitting on a small stool near the river in the middle of the chaos, absolutely calm, as if none of the things I had faced today bothered him. He was watching me intently with his cold, uninhabited eyes. That look gives me shivers even now, as I search for him in the crowd, hoping to return this unusual clock that ticks furiously in my hand, as if it has a purpose to fulfil.
Coming up to the crematorium I get that dreaded feeling that there's someone watching me. I know there are lots of eyes following me closely but one particular pair makes me want to bolt for cover. That's how I knew it was him.
On my left I notice a small, paved passage leading down the side of the ancient building that towers above me. I see him standing in the shadows, beckoning me towards him. He turns slowly and melts into the darkness. I follow him away from the crowds in a trance. The trance that leads me to my death. As the clock stops ticking I understand what he meant, to him, the clock was my life, my life that is now over.
From the first day I arrived in India I felt alone, like I was on the other side of the world I knew, South Carolina, my home. The Ganges is nothing like it says in the travel guide; nothing like the cheerful crowds and exquisite smells I had been expecting. Now, as I lie here amidst the thick purple clouds that hide me away from the daylight, I smell the familiar smell of a burning corpse. My own.
The thick, purple smoke that fills my lungs now makes me feel dirty, like a murderer to all those who've gone before, those who have been cremated under their own will and those under the will of others. The first thing I noticed in the chaos of priests and worshippers was that I was the only pale skin, the only tourist, and to every beggar, someone with money.
I was hustled by them, shoved away when I said no and held close every time I mentioned money. These people's stares as sharp as the knife that they may as well have held at my neck. Begging, pleading for the extra cash they would do anything to have in their pockets.
I'd known I couldn't stay there forever, so pushing my way through the violence I headed towards the river, towards the crematorium, the last place I had seen the mysterious old priest who had handed me the delicate, golden pocket watch that I now held tightly in my right hand.
"Protect this as if it were your life." I remember him saying.
I'd noticed this man earlier on today when I got off the Rickshaw that had delivered me to my hotel. He was sitting on a small stool near the river in the middle of the chaos, absolutely calm, as if none of the things I had faced today bothered him. He was watching me intently with his cold, uninhabited eyes. That look gives me shivers even now, as I search for him in the crowd, hoping to return this unusual clock that ticks furiously in my hand, as if it has a purpose to fulfil.
Coming up to the crematorium I get that dreaded feeling that there's someone watching me. I know there are lots of eyes following me closely but one particular pair makes me want to bolt for cover. That's how I knew it was him.
On my left I notice a small, paved passage leading down the side of the ancient building that towers above me. I see him standing in the shadows, beckoning me towards him. He turns slowly and melts into the darkness. I follow him away from the crowds in a trance. The trance that leads me to my death. As the clock stops ticking I understand what he meant, to him, the clock was my life, my life that is now over.
From the first day I arrived in India I felt alone, like I was on the other side of the world I knew, South Carolina, my home. The Ganges is nothing like it says in the travel guide; nothing like the cheerful crowds and exquisite smells I had been expecting. Now, as I lie here amidst the thick purple clouds that hide me away from the daylight, I smell the familiar smell of a burning corpse. My own.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
"Subway Train" by Nicola du Plessis -Grade 11
The air is filled with smoke emitted from thousands of early morning fires scattered across the squatter camp - the "informal township". Dawn is about to break. It is the winter of 2020. Jocab Tsotetsi (34), breadwinner, lights a cigarette as he leaves the shack. He knows that he is late as he hurries along to the dimly lit station where he will board the subway train.
Some ten years ago, when the subway commuter system was introduced, it provided a fairly safe mode of transport. In recent years, however - mainly as a result of over-crowding and poor maintenance - Jacob's train trip is a nightmare. He puts his right hand in his pocket and feels the cold steel of his pocket knife. It is an Okapi with a sharp, long blade. His only means of defence against the roving packs of juvenile robbers that seek to eke out a livelihood on the subway train. They prey upon commuters - particularly the elderly. Their attacks are sudden and vicious.
Jacob watches the commuters board the train. Their faces look tired and gaunt. He senses their anxiety. They too fear the darkness of the tunnel, the open doors and the breakneck speed of the train as it makes its way from Zonkisizwe to Germiston.
Without any warning sign, and while some passengers are still in the process of boarding, the train lunges forward. Many passengers have to retreat immediately to avoid being dragged off the platform onto the rails. It is a daily occorrence: a passenger - sometimes more than one - slips from the over-crowded, open doorway. Invariably they fall between the platform and the train. The space is so narrow that, without assistance, it is impossible to mount the platform again. The result is that the hapless commuter is dragged along by the train for a short distance only before its wheels slice ruthlessly through his or her lower limbs.
Screams of fear and pain rise above the sharp sound of steel on steel as the train starts to accelerate. The solitary prostrate figure that is left behind lies unconsciously on the rail track. In due course the body will be removed by rail workers. At the hospital his or her fate is invariably an amputation of one and sometimes both limbs.
Inside the coach commuters are packed like sardines. They do not talk. The expressions on their faces are grim. An absolute silence prevails. They are all workers trying to cope with their dire circumstances. The deafening sound of the wheels rambling along the rails makes conversation impossible. It is a loud and fearsome noise echoed through the open windows and doors as the train rolls forward through the tunnel.
There are no toilet facilities on the coach. Sometimes Jacob can hardly bear the stench in the coach. No effort is made to clean them. They are not maintained. Vandalism is rife. Broken windows and doors are never repaired. Commuter protests fall on deaf ears. Appeals to the State to reinstate the old taxi system have failed.
Jacob's greatest fear is a power outage that halts the train. These days it happens quite frequently - suddently, out of the blue. No time to prepare or position oneself for these events. The train comes to an immediate standstill. The result is always the same - panic overcomes the terrified passengers captured within the narrow confines of the pitch dark steel cage. Chaos prevails as Jacob smells fear around him. He muscles his way towards the rear end until he feels a wall behind his back. He has to fight back his own fear which threatens to overpower him. That is when he draws his Okapi. He feels the cold comfort of the steel in his hand. He knows that they will come for him. He stands poised, he is ready for them. They are delinquent elements with nimble hawk-like fingers, capable of performing a bodily search in a matter of seconds. The loss of cash, a watch and other valuables is almost instantaneous. It is these young prowlers that he awaits in the pitch dark coach.
It is Jacob's sixth sense and a warm breath on his immediate left that inform him of the presence of an assailant. He lunches and thrusts simultaneously. His experience steers the blade to the right place: into the centre of the chest cavity. He feels the gush of warm blood that spurts over his arm and hand. He feels how the body of his attacker tumbles to the floor of the coach. He stoops over it, wipes his hand and his blade on the shirt of the lifeless soul at his feet. He vigilantly returns to his former position - to await a second attempt. He feels no remorse at all. Jacob curses his circumstances and this death cart that he has to board twice every day. He despises it. He shakes his head because he has no choice. The train lunges forward without warning. A measure of calmness returns.
Commuting wordlessly on the subway train leaves time for reflection. Times are hard indeed and his daily trips certainly do not contribute to the quality of his life: but he does the best he can. His thoughts return to 2010. That wonderful year when his favourite team, Bafana-Bafana, managed - against all expectations - to win the World Cup. National exhilaration! He fondly remembers the family that he worked for in Hermanus and those halcyon days. He recalls how devastated he was when he learned in 2014 that they were emigrating to the USA. He was grateful for the severance pay packet. It lasted a while, but he realised, after the lapse of about six months and a sustained and unsuccessful effort to find another job, that he would have to return to Gauteng. So he and his family settled in a squatter camp, south of Vosloosrus. It is called Zonkisizwe: "All of us together". How ironic. His thoughts are interrupted when the train starts to slow down. Mercifully the end is in sight. The train stops.
Disembarkation is a grim affair. All of the commutrs in Jacob's coach dash for the doors. They all want to get out. It is the last station on the route. They know that the train will be set in motion without any warning signal. Those who are slow - perhaps too old - are always at risk of losing the balance. This is the fate of the commuter: too poor to buy or rent a vehicle, they are driven to resort to the rail service -the daily subway train.
It is a plight that commuters must bear. How else does one earn one's daily bread in this new tormented country where poverty has, over the past decade, increased hand over fist? Demur and protest have not yielded any positive results. It is not only the commuter services that have become so bad, Jacob thinks as he leaves the station, it is true in respect of all services. The township dwellers are struck worst. He misses 'the good old days'. His participation in the struggle for freedom and the advent of democracy have yielded scant fruit.
Some ten years ago, when the subway commuter system was introduced, it provided a fairly safe mode of transport. In recent years, however - mainly as a result of over-crowding and poor maintenance - Jacob's train trip is a nightmare. He puts his right hand in his pocket and feels the cold steel of his pocket knife. It is an Okapi with a sharp, long blade. His only means of defence against the roving packs of juvenile robbers that seek to eke out a livelihood on the subway train. They prey upon commuters - particularly the elderly. Their attacks are sudden and vicious.
Jacob watches the commuters board the train. Their faces look tired and gaunt. He senses their anxiety. They too fear the darkness of the tunnel, the open doors and the breakneck speed of the train as it makes its way from Zonkisizwe to Germiston.
Without any warning sign, and while some passengers are still in the process of boarding, the train lunges forward. Many passengers have to retreat immediately to avoid being dragged off the platform onto the rails. It is a daily occorrence: a passenger - sometimes more than one - slips from the over-crowded, open doorway. Invariably they fall between the platform and the train. The space is so narrow that, without assistance, it is impossible to mount the platform again. The result is that the hapless commuter is dragged along by the train for a short distance only before its wheels slice ruthlessly through his or her lower limbs.
Screams of fear and pain rise above the sharp sound of steel on steel as the train starts to accelerate. The solitary prostrate figure that is left behind lies unconsciously on the rail track. In due course the body will be removed by rail workers. At the hospital his or her fate is invariably an amputation of one and sometimes both limbs.
Inside the coach commuters are packed like sardines. They do not talk. The expressions on their faces are grim. An absolute silence prevails. They are all workers trying to cope with their dire circumstances. The deafening sound of the wheels rambling along the rails makes conversation impossible. It is a loud and fearsome noise echoed through the open windows and doors as the train rolls forward through the tunnel.
There are no toilet facilities on the coach. Sometimes Jacob can hardly bear the stench in the coach. No effort is made to clean them. They are not maintained. Vandalism is rife. Broken windows and doors are never repaired. Commuter protests fall on deaf ears. Appeals to the State to reinstate the old taxi system have failed.
Jacob's greatest fear is a power outage that halts the train. These days it happens quite frequently - suddently, out of the blue. No time to prepare or position oneself for these events. The train comes to an immediate standstill. The result is always the same - panic overcomes the terrified passengers captured within the narrow confines of the pitch dark steel cage. Chaos prevails as Jacob smells fear around him. He muscles his way towards the rear end until he feels a wall behind his back. He has to fight back his own fear which threatens to overpower him. That is when he draws his Okapi. He feels the cold comfort of the steel in his hand. He knows that they will come for him. He stands poised, he is ready for them. They are delinquent elements with nimble hawk-like fingers, capable of performing a bodily search in a matter of seconds. The loss of cash, a watch and other valuables is almost instantaneous. It is these young prowlers that he awaits in the pitch dark coach.
It is Jacob's sixth sense and a warm breath on his immediate left that inform him of the presence of an assailant. He lunches and thrusts simultaneously. His experience steers the blade to the right place: into the centre of the chest cavity. He feels the gush of warm blood that spurts over his arm and hand. He feels how the body of his attacker tumbles to the floor of the coach. He stoops over it, wipes his hand and his blade on the shirt of the lifeless soul at his feet. He vigilantly returns to his former position - to await a second attempt. He feels no remorse at all. Jacob curses his circumstances and this death cart that he has to board twice every day. He despises it. He shakes his head because he has no choice. The train lunges forward without warning. A measure of calmness returns.
Commuting wordlessly on the subway train leaves time for reflection. Times are hard indeed and his daily trips certainly do not contribute to the quality of his life: but he does the best he can. His thoughts return to 2010. That wonderful year when his favourite team, Bafana-Bafana, managed - against all expectations - to win the World Cup. National exhilaration! He fondly remembers the family that he worked for in Hermanus and those halcyon days. He recalls how devastated he was when he learned in 2014 that they were emigrating to the USA. He was grateful for the severance pay packet. It lasted a while, but he realised, after the lapse of about six months and a sustained and unsuccessful effort to find another job, that he would have to return to Gauteng. So he and his family settled in a squatter camp, south of Vosloosrus. It is called Zonkisizwe: "All of us together". How ironic. His thoughts are interrupted when the train starts to slow down. Mercifully the end is in sight. The train stops.
Disembarkation is a grim affair. All of the commutrs in Jacob's coach dash for the doors. They all want to get out. It is the last station on the route. They know that the train will be set in motion without any warning signal. Those who are slow - perhaps too old - are always at risk of losing the balance. This is the fate of the commuter: too poor to buy or rent a vehicle, they are driven to resort to the rail service -the daily subway train.
It is a plight that commuters must bear. How else does one earn one's daily bread in this new tormented country where poverty has, over the past decade, increased hand over fist? Demur and protest have not yielded any positive results. It is not only the commuter services that have become so bad, Jacob thinks as he leaves the station, it is true in respect of all services. The township dwellers are struck worst. He misses 'the good old days'. His participation in the struggle for freedom and the advent of democracy have yielded scant fruit.
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