post really, really, really short stories.

I want to show you a place. Come sit behind me, and gently place your hands on my shoulders. Now, close your eyes. I don’t want you to see the route we’re taking, you see… Once I have you in my own private wonderland I’ll simply plead ignorance as to the way back. But I’m sure you won’t mind. And even if, in this country with its blinding white light, you lose your sight after a little while and join me in my dark fumblings, I’ll still be able to woe you with fresh strawberries in the mornings.

Eventually your soul will grow wings strong enough to fly us both to a place where we’ll grow whole again. Yours will be a quick recovery; mine might take a little longer.

Maybe you’ll wander away one evening, while searching for strawberries to aid me in my recovery.

Maybe a wolf will catch you.

The gate wasn’t closed properly, and on the morning of July 3rd 1986, Nina, Romeo and Seuntjie embarked upon the adventure of a lifetime, the world opening up to them like the legs of a willing woman being paid handsomely for her services.

Nina became a campaigner for dogs’ rights, stressing the need for longer walks, extended butt-sniffings in public places and ridiculing the absurd beliefs humanoids had regarding the inherent badness of human foods for canines. Young pups, to this day, get healthy doses of her heroic efforts along with their milk.

Seuntjie turned into a philandering gigolo, breaking many a bitch’s heart along the way until a big MAN truck crushed his scull on a cold July evening. It was a badly timed crossing – he of all dogs should have known better…

Romeo returned home after two days, and watched the two children grow up. He became the little girl’s shadow, and didn’t mind the occasional ear-pulling and piggy-back rides that were expected of him. He cherished the food the kids sneaked from the table, wolfing down even the broccoli with apparent joy (even though it wasn’t a particular favourite of his…), and died on a warm African day with pigeons cooing in the trees and the sound of tractors going to the fields he so loved to play in.

She stares at the mirror and wonders where the other young woman disappeared to. The one who wasn’t afraid of thunderstorms and took the time to listen to the stories the wind had to tell. The girl who walked around campus barefoot in spring to feel the grass beneath her feet, and played her guitar from her balcony on dark nights.

She takes the screwdriver and carefully pops the lid of the tin. Takes the stick she went in search of earlier and slowly stirs the thick liquid. She picks up the brush, dips it deep, and starts covering the deceptive reflection.

Let’s make it orange.

She remembers a television program her dad used to watch when she was still young. It aired on Tuesday nights and she and her brother had to go to bed because it was on after the 8 o’clock news and there was school the next day. She recalls the music though, a piano starting with a tune that was resigned but hopeful, building up to a full orchestra with soulful stings and ending on a note that made her feel warm inside. She sometimes made up excuses to walk past the lounge – fetching a plaster for a gnawed-away fingernail, or a glass of water – hoping to put faces to the voices she silently got to know through the wall. She often wondered what her father’s fascination with the people were – they seemed quite ordinary. And sometimes in the afternoons as she sat in her swing at the bottom of the garden she would close her eyes, hear the song in her head and wish that she too could fly away.

Antonio once turned heads, singing songs in smoky bars. His sonorous voice made many a young naval officer, fresh from months at sea and desperate to quench exotic tastes, sit up and take note. He recalled with growing discontent the passionate fumbling of anxious young men, eager to remove a garter belt; impatiently fumbling with the hook at the back of his scarlet dress. That dress… Oh, how he yearned for a pot of foundation and some black eyeliner…

They lived in a labyrinth, the walls of which were covered in blackboard pain. They left each other messages scrawled in chalk; little notes of their longing and love for the other.

Sometimes she could still feel the heat radiating from his messages, for he carried the sun on his shoulder. The liquid sadness in her words often made him turn away helplessly, not able to contemplate the darkness beneath her calm surface.

One day he found the way out, and didn’t leave a message.

The virus seemed to be airborne. Governments were stricken, and ordered their best scientists to start searching for a cure immediately. The scientists didn’t know what they were up against – all the corpses they examined seemed to be in perfect health – all they had to go on were descriptions of the deceased’s last days. It seemed that something was gnawing away at their souls, causing them excruciating pain. Just before their deaths, they apparently mourned for the planet that they’d so carelessly abused for their own pleasure and material wealth. The virus was indiscriminate, picking off CEO’s of multinational companies, suburban housewives, the poor in rural Africa. People were dropping like flies, and chaos abounded. Nobody was safe.

The scientists felt powerless; how on earth do you cure a virus of the soul? And they weren’t immune either – although they were quarantined, colleagues around them were slowly succumbing to the dreaded desease.

They called it The Sorrow, because they didn’t know what else to call it.

They didn’t know that the only cure was locked deep in the African wilderness. Two years ago. And that they were thus fighting an unwinnable war.

She also died alone, mourning her loved ones. They were once a big family, and she’d had many healthy children. They had ears in their feet, and could communicate over fast distances. They loved the fruit of the Marula Tree and could find water where others only saw desert. They kept to themselves as much they could, but it was becoming increasingly difficult as corn fields began to invade their natural habitat. Man needed ethanol… She could tell that trouble was on the way, and ordered her offspring to stay away from the green fields. Her youngest son was the first casualty, shot in the dead of night. He couldn’t resist the exotic yellow fruit… They couldn’t even bury him, for man cut him into pieces to feed the locals. His tusks they sold.

The summers became longer, and hotter. They had to dig deeper for water, walk longer distances for their favourite treats. Her feet told her that other families were experiencing similar difficulties, and suffering sad losses. She felt powerless as her children started lying down, one by one, and didn’t get up again… She buried every last one of them. Mourned them, as only a mother could.

The ground grew still. She couldn’t believe it, and searched frantically for others of her kin, but to no avail.

She held out for a cool summer’s night, and when she finally lay down, she wept the cure for the dreaded virus that would kill them off, one by one. But nobody noticed. They didn’t think elephant tears were of any use.

The Big Grey Debate

Prof. Eric Holm

In a way this whole elephant debate amuses me a bit because it is a very temporary debate, in 50 years time this debate will look ludicrous, because we’re overpopulating the world at such a rate the elephants don’t stand a chance. When it comes down to your kid’s survival and the elephants survival, not one of these guys now fighting for elephants will take the side of the elephants. But, while it’s going it’s maybe a good exercise to get our morals orientated.

... she will drown herself in a river of merlot she won’t even need stones in her pockets the unbearable weight of vanished dreams will weigh her down just fine funny that how something that was never real can be so heavy she will wear that dress he liked the black one he couldn’t get off her quickly enough on her birthday she should have known something was wrong that night when he just jumped up to pour himself a glass of milk leaving her on the floor naked and confused why does she always miss these things there must be something terribly wrong with her