wallsitting

Some good stuff to enter your good stuff brain through your good stuff eyes.

[avirtualcalamity-blog]

‘n Muntstuk in 500 woorde

Tjek bietjie die aangehegde uittreksel van Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance uit.

Ek dink die akademici tussen ons mag belangstelling vind in ‘n groter deel as die res van ons, maar ek wil spesifiek fokus op die stukkie van writers block en kreatiwiteit (paragraaf 2 tot 13.)

Die oefening vir hierdie week is heel eenvoudig:

Elkeen skryf ten minste 500 woorde skryf oor een kant van 'n muntstuk.

Bokgeld - Willem

Soli Deo Gloria - Moenie my vra wat dit beteken nie. Ek kan dit Google, maar kaalvuis kan ek jou nie antwoord nie. Wat dit is, is die geskryf onder die springbok op die muntstuk wat jou hele handpalm volgelê het. Die kenmerk van speelgrond rykdom in 1988. Waarmee jy vir jou ten minste 5 klein boksies smarties by jou tjommie se ma kon koop wanneer dit snoepiedag by die kleuterskool was.

Vandag is ʼn bokgeld nie veel groter as my duim se nael nie, en is dit die eerste stuk kak wat ek uit my beursie grou en ek aan die karwag gee of vir die waiter los. Vandag is die springbok enigiets tussen ʼn vloekwoord op die lippe van parlementslede of iets wat te veel geld of moeite kos om te skiet.

Die Rand is ver van die $1.40 wat dit in die 1960’s was. Randburg - vernoem na die Rand, is ver van die visie wat die stadsvaders gehad het toe twee-en-dertig rykgat woongebiede hulself wou distansieer van die res van Johannesburg. Vandag skraap mense hul kleingeld bymekaar vir die hoere en tik wat volop beskikbaar oorkant die lisensiekantoor is.

Coert Steynberg het een oggend ʼn telegram of oproep ontvang om ʼn springbok uit te kerf, en het heel moontlik nooit besef dat sy invloed so ver sou strek as ʼn bar in Melville op ʼn Maandagaand nie. Die woorde wat hy met moeite en deurdagte denke in die eerste R1 munt ingeëts het, het in 1990 in ʼn graad 1 klas in Lyttelton laas vir een spesifieke persoon vir ʼn oomblik iets beteken. Weet die hoof van die SA Mint of selfs die (on)eerbare president van die verhouding van dié Suid-Afrikaanse kenmerk en Bach? Norrefok.

Soli Deo Gloria? Soli ANC Gloria miskien.

Alles in ag genome - fuck it. Vat ʼn tree terug, en beskou die munt as die blote objek wat dit is, hou jou halwe glas draught in die lug en sit vir ʼn oomblik jou skyf in die asbak. Kom ons erken Coert en almal na hom, wat nog die moeite gedoen het om die oertaal met moeite in elke stempel in te ets. Mag ons almal aspireer om op ons kleinste manier ʼn impak te probeer maak - dis miskien iets wat vyftig jaar later net een poephol inspireer, en die wêreld ʼn dalk beter plek maak.

The Tale – Candice

  The sculptor stood poised with the chisel in hand, contemplating the naked figure before him. The measurements he had taken were precise because capturing the curve of the female body on the base of a coin was probably one of the hardest things he had ever had to do thus far.  The mathematical precision was painstaking, the calculation of ratio, meticulous…….yet, there was more to this rendering than he cared or dared to admit.

The sultry sweep of her spine, the fold of her leg beneath her, the erotic rounding of her rear end, the longing sideways glance. Her hair was piled up on top of her head in order to highlight the elegant curve of her neck but he felt that it would have been better to be hanging loose, tickling the base of her behind. Or in this case, her tail. He stopped, chisel mid-strike…….TAIL……. What a strange word to call this creature. A tail. Catching tail. Chasing tail. Heads or tails? How was he ever going to capture the ephemeral essence of this being? Especially when she would only be the topic of the flip side of a coin. The tail. A pornographic construct of man’s lust. But she is more than just a tail. She is THE tale……of sultry womanhood, of fecundant motherhood. But these thoughts are fleeting, and the chisel continues to strike, to chip away at the mint that will become the base of the coin. Creating the other. The voiceless other. The alter to the ego. The second self. The tail to the head.

Fortuinsoeker   -   Matthys            

In 1994 het hulle vir ons gese: Eendag as ons groot is gaan dit baie geld werd wees. In 1994 was R5 nog immers iets werd gewees. Dis om en by die tyd toe ek begin skelm rook het en jy kon by die Griek op die hoek ‘n pakkie stywesand swaai vir onder R5. Dus vir ‘n 12 jarige rebel was ‘n R5 ‘n klein fortuin. Met twee R5 rande in jou sak kon jy gaan hang het by die V-Town en vir jou ma-hulle gespin het dat jy fliek gekyk het. Die truuk was wel om jou huiswerk voor die tyd te doen. Want as jongste van drie, het ouboet en ousus al jare se kak aangejaag en ek moes die spit afbyt of net meer kreatief wees om weg te kom met meer as moord, skelmrook. ‘n karwas sou vir my twee vyfrande in die sak besorg en as ek braaf was en die grassnyer ook aangeskakel nog silver sekel vir die hedonis wat ek was en seer sekerlk steeds is. Nie dat ek die flukste jong man onder die son was nie, maar ‘n man wat cool wil wees, moet ‘n paar skuiwe in die sak he en kan maak asof hy fliek. En daarvoor het jy bokke nodig gehad.

In die oorvol tronke van Suid-Afrika, speel die R5 steeds so belangrike rol soos wat dit vir my as klein rebel beteken het. Omdat meeste dinge in die lewe iets werd is, maar in die tronk wat ‘n gelykmaker is, help dit nie om buitensporige bedra te vra vir gunsies of goedere nie. In die oudae was sigarette die hoof komoditeit, maar deesdae kraai die R5 koning. Van badseep tot gatseks of beskerming daar teen gaan jou 5 bokke uit sak jaag. Nie dat ek eerstehandse ervaring het van die binne bruto werke van ‘n tronk nie, dis maar hoe dit aan my vertel is.

Twee en twintig jaar later loer ek na die Presidentiele Inhuldigings munt in my lessenaar laai en wonder wat dit werd is vandag. Google is ‘n mens se vriend, maar daar is te veel tegniese dinge wat saam met dit gaan om presies die waarde van my ou muntjie te bepaal. Hy is versteekseker meer werd as die R5 wat ek onthou, maar hoeveel presies gaan ek nog lank wonder. Ironiese genoeg meer as die prys wat betaal is om dit spaar of wat dit dalk kan werd wees vandag, staar ek verstom en wonder hoe defok ek dit reg gekry het om hierdie een nie te geblaas het nie.

 Kop kant.-  Dirk

 2003       Borwa       Afrika

Die ikoon tussen die woorde op die agterkant van die munt is onduidelik.   Daar is vlerkies bokant ‘n skild met iets wat te verweer is om te kan sien.  Die belangrikheid van die embleem is ook verlore in die waarde van die muntstuk. Inflasie het dit laat verkwyn tot junk wat net jou beursie vol maak.

Maar ten spyte van die skynbare waardeloosheid van die muntstuk het dit werklike waarde. Net soos een druppel water wat die meeste kere net ‘n irritasie is kan baie druppels water ‘n rivier vol maak, mense en diere red van droogte, kos produksie verseker of selfs gemeenskappe verspoel.  Tien van die waardelose muntstukke kan vir ‘n werklose red van hongersnood. ‘n Honderd kan ‘n gangbare middagete koop. ‘n Duisend kan jou tenk vol brandstof hou vir die week. Tienduisend is ‘n klein fortuintjie vir die meeste mense.  Indien elke persoon op die aarde wat inkomste verdien net een van hierdie waardelose geldeenheid kan afstaan kan dit ‘n verskil aan hierdie planeet van ons maak. Daarmee kan ons alternatiewe bronne van energie verseker sodat sy nie verder stelselmatig verorber word nie.

In my amper 50 jaar kon ek nog steeds nie sin maak dat die verkeerde kant van die muntstuk die kop kant is en die voorkant wat die geldeenheid wys die stert kant nie. Deesdae het die muntstukke nie meer koppe op die kop kant nie. Die koppe bly nie meer lank genoeg belangrik om op munte te kom nie. In elk geval nie die wat in alledaagse omloop is nie.  Die Republiek van Suid Afrika se embleem sal darem seker ‘n bietjie langer van toepassing bly as ‘n politikus se veretste kop. Maar dit is ‘n goeie ding.  In my beskeie opinie as ons president se gesig op ‘n muntstuk moet wees gaan die Reserwebank dalk moet begin bitcoins gebruik vir kleingeld een van die dae.

Wat ongelooflik is is dat hierdie vuil stukkie metaal  (ek dink dis een of ander brons allooi) vir 13 jaar in omloop is. As mens ‘n lys van eienaars kon maak en waarvoor dit als gebruik is in die koop transaksie behoort dit nogal ‘n vreesaanjaende lys te wees.  Dink net…

As ‘n fooitjie gelos by ‘n koffiewinkel. (Te min om te vat, te min om opsigself iets werd te wees vir die kelner)

Die kelner gooi dit in ‘n banksakkie saam met sy ander geld en handig dit weer dieselfde dag terug aan iemand wat dit weer vir hom los. Na ‘n paar siklusse hou die persoon die 2003-Borwa-Afrika en bêre dit in haar Louis Vouton beursie wat 22000 van hierdie muntstukke kos.

Die Louis Vouton eienaar gee dit en die res van haar kleinkgeld vir ‘n boemelaar wat vir hom ‘n half-jakkie by die shebien gaan koop.

Die muntstuk gaan maak ‘n draai deur ‘n paar taxies as fooi vir nagmerrie ervarings wat deur hulle verskaf word voordat dit uiteindelik weer by ‘n bank uitkom.

Die bank gee dit aan ‘n kafee wat kom kleingeld haal en ‘n 10 jarige seuntjie kry dit as kleingeld by die winkel toe hy gaan roomys koop toe sy week se sakgeld ‘n gat in sak begin brand.

Jy kan nog die taaiheid van die roomys voel op hierdie 50c muntstuk.

Die fifty pence – Tanya

Die minder bekende, maar aansienlik mooier, kleinboet van die swaar goue pond munt. Die koninging se bakkies pryk op al wat ‘n munt of papier is. Die halwe pond is geen uitsondering nie. Ek voel skoon volksverraaier oor ek ‘n groot queen aanhanger is. En nie net Freddy se band nie. Die 90-jarige dame met die cool hoede en vet hondjies het definitief my aandag getrek oor die jare. Ek kry al ‘n aansienlike kleiner gatkramp as ‘God Save the Queen’ gesing word… Nie gedink dis iets wat ek ooit sou sê nie. My mond sal daai woorde nooit kan vorm nie, maar ek gun nou die inwoners hulle eie volkslied! Dis tog waar ek myself nou bevind, en ook nie so tydelik soos ons gehoop het nie. Ons nuwe herberg is na 3 jaar nie meer so nuut en opwindend nie, en het ‘n meer ingeleefde, gemaklike gevoel. Sy geld voel nou ook tuis in my hande.

Na drie jaar is dit nou minder vreemd om ‘n 50p uit my beursie te haal, eerder as ‘n R5-muntstuk. My R5, R2 en R1 munte slaap nou in ‘n glasbottel reg vir die volgende vakansie huis toe. Interessante konsep, die vakansie na jou huis toe. Die plek met die R5 munte sal seker altyd vir ons huis wees.

Naas die £2 munt is dié een my gunstelling. Ek het nog nie my kleintyd uitkyk verloor dat groter altyd beter is nie. Heptagon, silwer, groot en blink. Die queen se halwe pond. In ‘n Hollandse-Suid Afrikaner se beursie wat haarself (nogsteeds verbaas) halfpad, verkeerde kant oor die ewenaar bevind.

[avirtualcalamity-blog]

A dark and stormy night

Ok guys, it is my turn to suggest a new topic. The topic is……It was a dark and stormy night….. We are looking at alternative introductions to the staid cliche. No more than 300 words. Go!!!!

Dr. Candice

It was a dark and stormy night on the eve of your coming. In the gloaming of my loneliness, into my life you shuddered and trembled…..  stopping like a sigh. Stopping just long enough to wrap yourself around my being, wrapping my legs around your body and occupying every inch of the available space in my head. If I was one to take heed of omens, of wild winds, of lightening crashes…..I would have walked away at ‘hello’. But the ‘hello’ became a ‘hell yeah’ and who could have predicted that our love affair would end in a sordid re-enactment of Earley and Adele’s killing spree, blood nightmares strewn across the silhouetted-thorn-tree wastelands of the Western Transvaal?

Matthys

  It was a dark and stormy night, like the night before and the night before that.  In fact the last time any light shone in this gloomy town, was once upon a time many moons ago, when the pigs still grabbled in the mud, instead of flying everywhere. To cut a long story short, the strangest thing happened last night, without any ceremony or announcement all the gifted horses stopped talking. The town folk queued for miles in order to gaze in to the mouths of these once splendid animals, in the hope to come behind the cut of the axe, but with no prevail. If only they knew, where David buried the carrots, they might have been able to reverse the proses or at least understand it. It is common knowledge that in a town where it is always dark and stormy, one needs to look cats out of trees before you jump any guns or draw bridges to cross or burn. Although jumping guns and drawing bridges was growing in popularity, the cat population, seemed to have dwindled, since darkness and storms first occurred in this humble dwelling

Willem

It was a dark and stormy night. I just finished beating the shit out of my pimp. I can taste the sweet taste of blood in the corner of my mouth. The cones of streetlight show me the way home. The sound of his jawbone snapping, his body flailing to the ground after my sweet right hook, brings a grin to my face. Ha-ha, never again Fucker.  I tell the sweet old drug dealer on the corner that tonight is maybe not the night. He backs off after I tell him the second time with a shove to the chest. The flat is coming up. Nobody is behind me.  I cross to the dark side of the street after the red Mustang passes. The steel gate opens with a buzz, and two flights of stairs later I am fiddling with my keys in the brass lock. With the bang of a door closing, my handbag flies its way to the couch. The bathroom light switches on as each cockroach finds its favourite crack. The cold tap water filling the basin brings relief to my bruised and bloodied knuckles. The streaks of dripping mascara in the bowl make me look up. Smiling, I meet myself in the mirror and think what tomorrow will bring. Welcome home, Peaches.    

Dirk

  IT was a dark and stormy night. Every single flipping time that anything went wrong. 

Like tonight, when Little Red were ambushed by the wolf it was starting to get grey and the wind were howling. When the wolf lay drowning in the river after a belly full of stones, again there were no stars visible and a terrible storm brewing. 

The night that Rumpelstiltskin came to collect the millers daughter it was a full blown storm. A couple of nights later when he lost his temper and he tore himself in two, the castle walls were a barricade against the worst storm of that year. 

The dwarves were looking for Snow White while their storm lanterns were barely able to give them enough light to eventually find her dead. For the seven of them it was the worst night of their lives. 

It look like tonight is one of those nights. You can feel the darkness in the air. 

“Sis, we need to find shelter and food before this get any worse!” Hansel shouts to Gretel.  

[avirtualcalamity-blog]

Rond-om-talie Nommer asseblief

Rond-om-talie Nommer asseblief

Ok so die plan is as volg. Almal onthou die telefoon speletjie wat ons in die kleuterskool gespeel het. Iemand fluister iets in die maatjie langsaan se oor en so gaan dit in die sirkel om totdat die laaste person moet se wat hy gehoor het.

So die plan is as volg: Om te kyk of ons as ‘n groepie saam ‘n bladsy kan skryf of 3. Dit Afrikaans of engels of gemeng wees maak nie saak nie, die belangrikste is dat die storie moet lyf kry en ‘n bladsye volmaak.

‘n minimum van 3 sinne, a maksimum van ‘n paragraaf per beurt.

Die lys is as volg:

· Willem skryf die eerste strofe en stuur dit aan Candice.

· Candice stuur dit aan Dirk

· Dirk aan Marieke

· Marieke aan Andries.· Andries stuur dan weer vir Willem.

Ons hou dan so aan totdat ons  n storie wat semi sin maak

Frikkie van Frikkie’s Pizza en Chicken Wings staan in die restaurant se deur, en kyk uit oor die dorp se stowwerige hoofstraat. “Is daar meer in die lewe?” wonder hy, terwyl die rook by sy neusgate uitborrel. Hy is al klaar die Pizza tycoon van Pofadder, maar sien hy kans om die padstalle van Kakamas aan te vat?

His father had always told him to reach for the stars, and God dammit, this was his chance. All he had to do was convince Maryna to go on this journey with him. He had too…..his soul longed for the thrill of the new… And he was dying a little everyday. But that was not going to be easy though. How could he, when he had promised her that, at the age of 43, he was finished with risky business deals and was putting family first?

Terwyl hy die stofduiweltjies staan en dophou dink hy aan sy vorige meesterplan. Die een met die stokkies en die Nigerians… Dit was amper ‘n lelike storie. Hy weet so iets van rekenaars en het op Kakamas ‘n 16GB stokkie gesoek wat die plaaslike outjie nie eens geweet het jy kry nie. Na ‘n Google tog kry hy toe hierdie Chinese fabriek op Alibaba wat BRAND NAME 16GB stokkies verkoop teen R17 een. Die voordeel is dat jy kan ‘n container vol daarvan inbring. Hy het sy somme deeglik gedoen. Spreadsheets en als uitgewerk. ‘n Container kan 500 bokse van 100 stokkies inbring. Dis 5000 stokkies! Hy kan dit verkoop teen R200 elk en ‘n fortuin maak. Hy het drie stokkies verkoop. Sy niggie se dogter en twee van haar vrinne op Stellenbosch Universiteit het gekoop. Maar die moes hy ook die geld terug gee want as jy gelukkig is het die stokkies 1GB bruikbare spasie gehad. As jy ongelukkig is het hulle jou rekenaar se parte ge-eet. Om van die goed ontslae te raak het hy hulle twee-twee saam met ‘n dubbele pizza bestelling weggegee, maar toe sy pizza verkope begin val het het hy daarmee ook moes ophou.

Maar een dag toe kom die Nigerian by die winkel aan wat wou uitvind van die stokkies. Hulle het toe die spul stokkies op ‘n bakkie gelaai en is teen R5 een vort. Tog was dit nie die einde van die afêre nie. Die Nigerians het twee weke later in die middel van die nag aan sy deur kom hammer om hulle geld terug te kry want selfs hulle met hulle netwerk van straatverkopers in die Kaap kon nie daarvan ontslae raak nie. Met sy meester onderhandeling tallente kon hy hulle afstry om vir net nog R3 per stokkie terug en twee Jumbo Kakamas Pizza Specials die saak daar te laat. Gn wonder Maryna is oor skepties nie, maar hy weet wat hy gaan doen om sy ou Boklammetjie aan sy kant te kry.

Ja, my ou Maryna, sy’s maar ñ moeilike vrou jong - sy vat nie kak nie, veral nie van tegnologie of Nigeriërs nie. Tog het sy ñ sagte kant ook en dis vir daai kant wat ek moet skiet. Maryna is ñ vrou wat ver en wyd sal ry vir ñ paar egte wolpantoffels. Sy het eens ñ paar in Dullstroom gekoop toe sy self nog ñ lammer was en van die dag wat ou Wollies weggegee moes word (weens die grootte en stank daarvan) het Maryna ñ plaasvervanger paar pantoffels gesoek. Ek het besef dat na die drama met die stokkies en Nigeriërs en die permanente reuk van pizzadeeg wat aan my klou, het ons twee ñ nuwe lewensavontuur nodig - sy verdien dit, ek benodig dit. Dit raak skielik duidelik wat die avontuur moet behels: die soektog na Wollies se opvolger!

Frikkie word weg geruk van sy eie gedagtes, deur koos kombuis wat sing van sommige ou tannies en hoe hulle hom afpis. Hy hoef nie eers na die skerm te kyk om te weet dat dit sy skoonma is wat weer bloed of skaaptjops soek nie. Hy het die liedjie spesiaal afgelaai om hom te waarsku wanneer die ou feeks op sy spoor is. Hy aarsel ‘n oomblik en besluit dan wel om te antwoord. Die  jirre weet. Van Der Merwe Goeie middag. Frikman is dit jy? Kan jy my hoor? Dis noodgeval!

Sy skoonma se definisie van ‘n noodgeval kan enige iets wees van ‘n ingroei toonnael of die melk wat oornag suur geraak het omdat sy vergeet het om dit in die yskas te bere en nou is daar nie melk vir haar elfuur tee nie.

Hi Ma. Duidelik soos daglig. Wat is die krisis?

Dis Soufie se dogter - die dowe ene – sy het ‘n kleintjie gekry hier op die tiewie kamer se vloer. Jy weet, met my seer knieg en heupe… ek kan nie daar onder bykom nie. Daar is ‘n gekreun in die agtergrond. Soufie is ook nou hier doenig met ‘n handdoek en ‘n skottel water, maar met die kind se stommigheid kan ons nie heeltemal verstaan wat sy vir ons probeer sê nie.  

Hy wonder waarom sy hom gebel het, en nie eers die ambulans nie, maar besef dat die naaste ambulans heel moontlik van Springbok af moet ry na die plaas toe. Wag, ek is oppad.

Hy sluit die leë restaurant se deur met die moerse bos sleutels wat aan sy jeans se lussies hang en skiet die smeulende Chesterfield stompie met ‘n boog agteroorsy skouer.

‘This shit is about to get real’ he thought as he walked towards his Datsun bakkie, fishing for the keys in his pocket. When he first met ‘Sarah’, so named for the tortured-sexually-frustrated-deaf-mute nympho in Children of a Lesser God,  he felt like a god, out to rescue a fallen angel. But little did he realise that she would rescue him. Rescue from a life of boredom….pizza dough…..quests for wooly slippers….and the fear that hammered in his chest every morning at 3am, when he rolled away from his snuggle-huddle of a warm wife, and bit into his pillow, silently screaming that there had to be more to life than this existance he was leading. But ‘Sarah’ had to go and ruin the god-delusion by getting herself pregnant. Now he was fucked. Literally and figuratively.    

Die Datsun’tjie se agterwiele skop ‘n boog klippies en stof op soos hy die versneller plattrap toe hy wegtrek. Skaars 50 meter later los hy egter weer ‘n streep in die stofpad soos hy rem trap.

Fok ek kannie soontoe gaan nie!

Hy fee sy hande deur sy bos rooi hare in ‘n gebaar van magteloosheid. Moord; weghardloop; hy soek na opsies. Weereens los hy ‘n stofwolk van frustrasie toe hy wegtrek. Sooibrand Muller die kroegeienaar het jare terug op ‘n ambulans gewerk en hy het al ‘n paar keer stories vertel oor die bloedjies wat hy in die lewe help bring het. By die ValsOog kan hy dalk twee vliee op ‘n slag uitsorteer. Sooibrand skuld hom hoeka vir die Special van nou-die-aand. En hy kan dalk ook bietjie vloeibare inspirasie en moed kry vir die gemors waarin hy nou heel moontlik is.

Al is die kroeg se deur nog toe, weet hy Sooi en sy mense is reeds besig om reg te maak vir die eerste dors wanhopiges. Sonder huiwer loop hy dadelik na die agterkant, hy het nie nou nog tyd om te wag of doekies om te draai nie. Doekies, doeke, jissis.

Praat jy al weer met jouself ou Van? Lag  vra Sooibrand terwyl hy naderstap om die hand te gee. Sooibrand Muller is ‘n koddige ronde mannetjie met ‘n effens bles. Na ‘n langaand in die ValsOog, mag ‘n mens hom verwar met die Orosmannetjie. Die Orosmannetjie met ‘n vals oog.

Fokkof Sooi. Gooi vir my twee dubbels in ‘n langglas.

Jissis ouboet. Die boeing het nog nie eers opgestuig nie? Maar wie is ek om te kla? The customer is always right.

Sooibrand, is al lank genoeg ‘n kroegeienaar om te weet om nie verder te krap waar dit nie jeuk nie. Na die tweede dubbel ontdooi die mees gehardste damduikers.

Stadig, soos ‘n wintersonnetjie, betree die alkohol Frikkie se bloedstroom. Eers by sy derde dop hou die aarde op met spin en lig hy sy kop halfhartig om sy ouvriend in die oe te kyk.

So jy reken jy gaan die fokkop fix met wolslippers, nê? Ek kon jou gisteraand dalk help met ‘n paar wolskoeters. Sy lag verander in ‘n roggelendoe hoes. Erens spring daar ‘n poep ook uit.

Fokus Sooi, foktog. Hy trek aan die Chesterfield. Ja man, Maryna het hierdie wolslippers  gehad – moerse lang storie. Maar ek skat ek moet alles agtermekaar kry – twaalf dosyn rose, slippers, ‘n vakansie in Margate. Dalk moet ek Sarah se vingers afsny. sê Fanie kalm, gefasineerd met die refraksie van die lig in die brannewyn.

He can see his future in those oily swirls, the refracted light through the brandy. He is a seer, looking into the alcohol soaked second coming, where he will be a god reborn. But for real this time. There will be no woolly slippers, deaf sex goddesses, mewling babies or pallid pizza dough. He crushes the Chesterfield in the over-full ashtray, which has not even been cleaned from last night’s revelries, throws the last of the acid brandy down his throat, shoves the bar stool back and mumbles a goodbye while tossing twenty bucks on the bar counter. Tell me why I don’t like Mondays is playing in the background and Frikkie snorts. ‘What an appropriate song to play on the day I die’ he thinks to himself.

Die brannas het sy bewerasies van vroeër verwyder en met vasberadenheid stamp Frikkie die kroegdeur oop. Die vars lug buite tref hom egter soos ‘n trein en al die gebeure van die laaste ruk kom saam met die skerp sonlig in fokus. Sy verlorenheid in die godsverlate dorpie, die Nigerians, die wolslippers, sy verafsku in die verhouding met Sarah en sy planne vir Kakamas se ketting padstalle.  

Soos wat hy na die Datsun toe stap besef hy met absolute helderheid dat sy lewe gaan verander. Maar die feit bly staan, hy gaan hom hierdie keer moet uitlieg uit hierdie situasie uit as die kind met rooi hare uitgekom het.  

Die knal skeer deur die stilte van die khalari, maar word net so vinnig geabsorbeer deur die rooigrond. Die loop van die 38 smith and wesson is warm as Frikkie weer aanlê om te skiet. Hy het hulle netjies maak staan teen die oukraalmuur. One down nog 5 om te gaan, dink hy terwyl hy die haan terugtrek. ‘n patroon vir elke fout en seer. Een vir een bars die volbottels wat hy netjies rangskik het. 5 bottels brannewyn en een bottel Gin. Die Gin is vir die Engelse stem in sy kop wat netnie wil wyk nie. Hy het die bottels gelable ook. Sy hart oopgevlek op ‘n stukkie papier en dit sommer met wondergekom teen die bottels geplak. Die kind is toe gebore, ironies nes Emma Kuhlema se bloeitjie, sonder kop op tone. Die toneel het hom hard geruk. Die kortstondigheid van die lewe, die verspeelde kanse, mislukte drome. Dit was ‘n wake up call, ‘n devine intervention.  Na die die aanskouing van die bloederige halfmens het daar iets in hom verander. Die laaste gedagtes toe hy die kroeg verlaat het, was om alles te eindig, maar nuuskierigheid het die oorhand gekry en hy het wel besluit om te gaan loer. Bloed van my bloed en al daai stront.

Met intrap slag het hy geweet, die selfdood gedagtes is reeds in sy verlede en sy toekoms lê wragtig in sy eie persoonlike hande. Sonder om ‘n woord te uiter het hy omgedraai en uitgeloop. Om vorentoe te gaan moet hy eers die verlede afmaai. Na die pitstop by Pine se drankwinkel is hy reguit veld toe, om van sy verlede ontslae te raak. Deel van sy verlede is ook maryna. Maryna, met krullers en wolslippers wat haarself ook jare terug al laat gaan het, maar nooit die moeite gedoen het om hom te vertel het nie.

Die Datsun sukkel om te start, maar vat by by die derde probeerslag.  Hy sakel die radio aan en Vallient Swart begin sing van die highway,  Frikkie glimlag tevrede met ‘n Chesterfield in sy mond en ‘n kouebier tussen sy bene terwyl hy die motor in ‘n Noordlike rigting stuur. Weg van sy kak besluite en kranksinnig verlede…

[avirtualcalamity-blog]

Haikus

Hallo wielie-walie woelwaters!

Vir hierdie week, dink ek ons moet kyk om elkeen ‘n haiku te gooi met 'n spesifike tema.

Om op te som, Haiku’s het 'n paar kenmerke: (Ek lys nie almal hieronder nie, en vir ons doeleindes is dit meer riglyne as reels)

3 lyne

17 lettergrepe - 5-7-5

Gebruik gereeld juksta posisie

Telegram styl

Fokus op die natuur

Nie-rymend

Hier is 'n voorbeeld:

Paula Hartzenberg

die pit word korter die was lê rondom versmelt vuur verdrink daarin

daar is nog, hier:

http://www.litnet.co.za/top-13-die-groot-afrikaanse-haikoe-kompetisie/

Die tema is soos volg:

Die baarmoeder van jou kreatiwiteit - skryf oor die plek, psigies, of fisies, waar jy jouself bevind wat jou 'n skop op die gat gee om aan’t skryf, teken, sing, kook, watookal,  te kom. As jy nie ene het nie, kry hom die week - ek dink dis vir die beste.

Lekker week!

Willem

gif hang in die lug doef doef gee isolasie 'n  spook loop hier rond

poison in the air the beats give isolation a ghost wanders here

Marieke

Wyn vloei flink en vry Woorde kabbel oor my tong ‘n Halfklaar storie

Gebeure en wyn Persepsies en grys dade My potlood loop rond

Dirk

soet-koek-bitter-koffie vroeë skadus winker deur die akkers rys-pap voor kettie speel

turtle doves’ waking calls soft rays greens the big oaks sling-shot slowly waiting for breakfast

Matthys

Breek ys om whiskey onthalwe Wintergras en langpaaie Om manne te verstaan van haar lyf My pen bloe soms onverskrokke

Willem

Mammon verlei my in die eetkamer se hoek hekseuur is niks die landskap vervleg met gister se gesprekke die wit lyn flikker

Matthys

Baar met opset n muis Met dertig stukke silver tertafel Die halfmens herhaal homself half Keisers is gemaak vir vioolspel Hedonisme is ook n antwoord

Candice

The moon wakes in the Middle of me and I become The blossoming night

[wallsitting]

Lost in words of revelations

“Wake up.” she says.

  He opens his eyes. She is sitting on the white 1960’s chair in the corner of the room looking through him. Her left hand holding a cigarette, her right hand tucked under her left elbow. Her legs are hanging over the right armrest; her left big toe’s nail polish is chipped. The deep brown-red nipple of her right breast is peeking out of the bathrobe.

  “You need to go.” Some of the smoke escapes from her mouth as she inhales the newly lit cigarette, her right hand pulling the gown in place as she stands up.

  He looks at her, his head still firmly on the pillow. “Ok.” He picks up the watch from the bedside table. “I see I’m late.” He sits up and turns his body to put his feet on the floor, while fastening the wrist watch.  He rubs his eyes and brushes his hand through his hair while he starts scanning the floor for his underwear.

  She stands in front of the mirror. The distance moves to the other side of the door. She looks down for a moment to put the cigarette out in the ashtray surrounded by 3 kinds of Chanel and a bottle of Issey Miyake on the dressing table. Her impatience shifts to him fastening his shoes.

  He gets up with his tie peeking out of his pocket, his shirt untucked, the tuxedo jacket hanging loosely over his shoulders. As he steps toward the door, he’s rubbing the sand out of his eyes, smearing it on the side of his trousers with the tips of his right fore and middle fingers. He pats himself down to look whether he has everything and stops for a moment while reaching for his car’s key in his inside jacket pocket.

  She’s looking out of the bedroom window overlooking the quiet street below when he takes her hand to say goodbye. She looks at him and looks away. There are no tears. He walks to the door holding her hand, letting it slip through his as he moves further away.

  On the bottom stair one of her Jimmy Choo stilettos lie. Her purse is lying next to half a bottle Stolichnaya vodka on the coffee table in the lounge and he helps himself to one of her cigarettes that had spilled out. All he hears as he walks to the front door is the sound of his leather soled shoes on the white tile floor. The front door is still unlocked and the sun hits his hung-over face like a brick. With both hands he feels in his pockets for his sunglasses, the unlit cigarette hanging limply from his bottom lip, and remembers that he left it in the side pocket of his car door.

The car greets him with two flashes as he presses the big button on the key fob. The inside of the car smells like cigarette smoke as he climbs in and switches on the radio to find out what’s news for today. He puts on the sunglasses and switches the radio to mp3. The first bar of Chemicals by Diary of Dreams stirs up memories of times when the boundary between love and sex was much wider, and much narrower.

He looks up at the bedroom window for a last time and can see her silhouette behind the curtain netting. The newspaper delivery boy is the only person in the quiet little street, and he waits for the pimpled 14 year old to pass his car first before the red 1976 Alfa Romeo Spyder pulls out of the parallel parking lane.

  She finishes her cigarette, staring out the window until she can’t hear him anymore. The rosy smell of the bath salts is streaming into the bedroom. She walks to the bathroom, her feet treading carefully on the plush carpeting, pausing for a moment to grab an unfinished glass of wine that is standing on the marble dressing table. She catches her eye, and sees her face as it was the night before.  The scar running down the right side of her neck to her collar bone is still visible after the plastic surgery.

  He is speeding down the highway, the wind rushing through his hair. Moments before he stopped at a service station to buy coffee and more cigarettes and let the Alfa’s roof down. His favourite cure for a hangover is caffeine and the brisk winter wind in your face at 100 kilometres per hour. He realised though, that even if you can get cured of certain types of alcohol, it’s much more difficult when coming to your heart’s desires – and the hangover is ten times worse.

  The bathroom is steamed up. She bends over to feel whether the water is warm enough. She loosens the knot and the red silk gown slides down her body and puddles on the floor. She steps into the bath, the water embracing her like his hands and lips a few hours before. She lays back, her head tilted back and her eyes closed. In some way she has to make sense and digest what happened again last night. The steam is making her wavy black hair even curlier. She opens her green eyes, stares at the ceiling and says “Fuck.... Fuck..... Fuck...”

  He decides to pull over at a view point overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. He lights a cigarette and sits down on a park bench. Beer bottles are lying in a heap next to the dustbin. A McDonald’s wrapper is clinging to a dry shrub, waving gently in the cool breeze.

Last night, like so many times before, he recognised her face from across the room. Like all the times before, he walked across the floor to greet her.

 “Hi.”

“Hello.” She smiled and held out her silk wrapped hand. Her hold was as fine as china.

“I trust you are well?” He put his hand back in his pocket. His glance focussed on her deep red lips.

“Indeed I am. You?” Another smile flashed across her face – her eyes lighting up as she said that.

“The night’s getting better...” He smiled and looked to the ground.

“I’m glad to hear that. Will you excuse me?” She said as she held him momentarily by his elbow.

“Sure, maybe we see each other a little bit later.” He looked into her eyes, her focus shifted somewhere over his shoulder. She gestured to whoever was behind him that she’s on her way. They looked at each other and smiled, it almost evolving into a chuckle.

“Bye then.”

“Bye.”

  She shouldn’t have been surprised to see him there – that’s how they met the first time six years ago – somewhere that nobody would expect them both to be at the same place at the same time. Last night she was a guest of honour; receiving an award of excellence for managing the team that gave the company their massive returns in profit at the end of the financial year. He, on the other hand, had nothing to do with the financial sector and attended as a plus-one to one of the directors’ personal assistants.

When she saw him walking towards her from across the room, her mind went to thoughts of him and forgotten was the award she had received moments before. They greeted quickly and she excused herself to greet and thank some of the overseas investors that supported her and essentially made all this possible.

They met again when she slipped out the kitchen door for a cigarette. He was pacing up and down in the courtyard, a glass of whisky in his left hand and a cigarette in the other, stroking his hair while talking to himself. He looked up as the kitchen door closed behind her, and upon seeing her, his face broke into a smile as she stepped outside. He took a sip of the whisky and a drag of the cigarette, the coal glowing bright red in the shadow cast by a big oak tree.

“Hi” He exhaled with the smile still firmly on his face.

“Hi” She started moving towards him down the little flight of stairs. As she stood before him, she produced the packet of cigarettes out of her clutch. He had his lighter ready by the time she brought the cigarette to her mouth.

“Well, fancy seeing you here.” She exhaled her first puff of smoke.

“You know how it is.” He chuckled, by now pinching the last two drags of his Lucky Strike between his fingertips.

She smiled back as she blew a column into the air. Her bright red lips were coloured in perfectly. “So, how’s it going?”

He flicked the butt into the oak tree, the ashes turning into fireworks upon impact with a tree branch. “Oh well, nothing much has changed since I saw you the last time, still the same job- being a slave to the wage.” He winked and the whisky ice jingled in the glass as he lifted it. “Congratulations on your award. Anything else I should know of?”

“Thanks.” She smiled and did a faux-bow. “Well, you see where I work now. And besides what I’m doing here, there’s not much else for me to do.”

She stamped out the last half of her cigarette and she started walking back to the building. He took the last sip of his whisky as they got to the door, and after walking in after her, put the glass on one of the counters. “That’s my cue.”

She turned around. “Can’t I convince you to have one more drink with me? It’s been a long time.” He looked at his watch. “Don’t worry; your date has gone home with her boss a long time ago already. I saw them sneak out the side as I snuck out.”

He was sure that her success in business was a product of her ability to convince people to do what they probably shouldn’t do.

“Ok.” He smiled. “What can I get you?” They were walking towards the bar.

“Sorry, we’re closed up folks.”  Jimmy said over his shoulder. He was packing quarter full bottles of liquor away in boxes.

“Well, that’s too bad then.” He said half disappointedly, “How are you getting home?” He was feeling for his car’s keys in his pocket.

 “I was supposed to call a taxi; you never know how much you’re going to drink at these dos.”

“Why don’t I give you a lift home, we can at least finish our chat on the way.”

  The basset hound greets him with a wolf’s howl as he drives into the garage. He grabs Tolstoy by his floppy ears and gives them a rub. The fluorescent lights in the kitchen flicker to life as the garage door behind him closes and Tolstoy runs to his mattress in the living room with his blue rubber bone.

He takes his wallet and keys out of his jacket pocket, and puts them on the granite kitchen counter. He gets a glass out of the cupboard next to the spice rack, goes to the freezer and grabs a handful of ice. The water bubbles in the glass as he opens the faucet. He takes the glass of water and heads up the staircase.

He undresses, putting his suit in the bag so that he’ll remember to get in dry-cleaned on Monday. He hangs up the lonely black tie on the tie rack inside the built-in-cupboard door. The rest of his clothes go into the wicker basket in the corner, for Elizabeth to sort out on Thursday.

With his water in hand he walks into the bathroom, opens the shower’s hot water tap and stands in front of the mirror. There are dark rings under his bloodshot eyes, and he rubs them before grabbing the edges of the basin, leaning forward, never breaking eye contact with himself.

He tests the water temperature as he steps into the foggy shower. He adjusts the tap to be a little bit colder, and stands under the water facing the shower head. The shock of the water in his face makes it difficult to breathe initially, but it gets easier as he drags his right hand through his hair, while steadying himself with the left.

“So, those are the details of what I’ve been doing with myself since we saw each other last.” She gestured with her right hand to a building with a grand Art Deco front door. “The red brick one on the right. That’s me.” 

“Geez, is there anywhere in the world you haven’t been?”

She sighed. “Too bad I barely spend enough time there to see the touristy stuff. It’s not the same when it’s for work.”

He managed to get a parking spot across the street in front of the front door. He turned in his seat. “Well, okay then, it was good seeing you again.”

“Why don’t you come in for a nightcap? You haven’t told me your story yet – the whole way here it was just ‘me, me, me’.” She chuckled and grabbed his left knee.

By force of habit, he looked at his watch. It was half past one. “Ok. Why not? Tomorrow is Sunday…” He smiled at her. He loosened the seatbelt and switched the radio off.

He climbed out of the car and walked around, careful of a passing bread truck, to open the door for her. She was fumbling in her purse for her house keys, and smiled at him as she put her black stiletto on the cobbled street and took his hand. Her eyes echoed the full moon. They crossed the street and ran up the five steps to the door.

The curvy glass metal door swung open.  An enormous chandelier above a rosewood table came to life. A bush of deep-red roses was neatly arranged in an antique vase. He stood with his hands in his pockets, admiring the double volume lobby. “Very nice!”

“Thanks.” She said, smiling.

The lounge was on the right, a staircase separating it from the kitchen. The bedroom was on the mezzanine and also made use of the chandelier’s light.

She closed the door behind them and switched on a standing lamp in the corner of the lounge. She gestured for him to have a seat, putting her purse on the coffee table.  He sat on the coffee coloured leather couch with a view of the street. She joined him, took off her shoes and threw them in the general direction of the stair case, rubbing her feet through her stockings.

She grabbed his knee again. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”

“Sure.”

She walked to the kitchen.

 “So how long have you been here?” He looked at her photo on the front of a magazine.

“A year in December.” She called from the kitchen.

She reappeared with a bottle of Stoli under the arm, two glasses pinched between the fingers in her left hand and a plate of cheese and crackers in the other.

She moved the magazine away as she was putting down the cheese, vodka and glasses. She cracked the bottle seal, and poured them each two fingers of vodka.

She sat down next to him. He noticed her perfume for the first time that evening. 

His hand searches for the thick dark blue towel on the towel rack. As he steps onto the bathroom mat, his feet leave wet prints. Tolstoy is lying in the door gnawing on the blue bone. He steps over the basset, finds a pair of shorts in the top drawer in his cupboard, and slips them on, taking care to fasten the draw string. He lies on top of the down duvet and stares at the ceiling, awaiting sleep while his mind is still racing.

He poured them each another drink. “This isn’t bad at all!” He held up the glass to look at the contents filtering the soft light before clinking her glass.

“You’re one of a few people I’ve met than would drink Vodka straight.” She took a sip of the Russian favourite. The lock of hair that kept her busy slipped through her fingers.

“I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

“You don’t say.” She moved closer and gave him a playful kiss. She giggled.

He took her glass and put it together with his on the coffee table. He grabbed her hand and pulled her closer. Her face was full of anticipation. He gently kissed her while moving the lock of hair from her face, stroking her cheek, his right hand cupping the back of her head.

Her tongue was warm on his top lip. “Come.” She said quivering, smiling, holding out her hand as she found her feet and stood up from the leather couch. He got up and let her lead him up the staircase.

  She puts the towel in the laundry basket as she walks past from the bathroom, on her way to the staircase. Her damp hair is hanging loosely over the bathrobe. She kicks the stiletto to one side and assesses the situation in the lounge, before turning around and heading to the kitchen. The kettle begins to rustle and she grabs a rice cake on the kitchen counter, while getting a big white cup and a tea bag from the cupboard. She opens the laptop computer’s screen standing on the kitchen table, and sees thatseven e-mails came from Japan during the night. Indices have changed and funds need to be relocated before the stock market opens in New York on Monday morning.

She turns back around. The kettles red light is still waiting patiently while the water is getting warmer. She has another crunchy bite of the rice cake, and grabs hold of the kettle’s handle anticipating the boiling water.

It was the first time somebody saw her like that since the accident. He kissed her neck following the scar’s trail to pause at her heaving breasts, her hands grabbing onto his hair. He moved back up, their eyes locking before she bit into his lips again and her legs pulling him into her.

She scrolls through her diary to prepare herself for the week ahead. She chews on the last bit of rice cake and sips on the hot cup of tea as she opens the “My Pictures” folder on her computer.

His finger tips were jolts of electricity on her back as they lay damp under the satin sheets. She settled into his arms, listening as his breaths got deeper. She thought of how after all these years it eventually culminated into this perfect moment.

She felt him holding her tighter. “I love you.”

She squeezed his hand. “Shhhh, go back to sleep.”

[wallsitting]

Die Tweede Trek: Deel 1

Die twee strale lig sny van onder af deur die grys. Twee figure in helder geel en silwer AA Hazmat kom by die parkeer garage se trappe opgestap.

 Hier het nog 20 jaar gelede elke sondagmiddag studente van die oorkantste universiteit hulle inkopies by die Pick ’n Pay kom doen. Daar was 16 ure van die dag ’n geskarrel tussen die banke, soepermarkte en koffie winkels. Vandag is dit ’n hedendaagse Pompeii.

 ”Het jy die planne onthou?” Sam Botha se se stem kraak oor die twee-rigting radio. Al is hulle langs mekaar, moet hulle deur die radios praat – eerstens omdat die pakke so dik is, dat die persoon langs jou skaars hoorbaar is, en tweedens omdat dit protokol is om al die gesprekke op te neem en saam met die koplig/kamera werk as ’n Blackbox.

 ”Ek het dit hierso.” Louisa Malan beduie met haar regter hand wat die rol tekeninge vashou.

 Die stof is te dik om verder as 10m met die koplampe te sien. Die flikkering van die groen en blou LED’s op hulle skouers skep ’n aura rondom hulle.

 ”Waarna soek ons?” vra Louisa terwyl sy die rekkie van die planne begin afrol.

 ”Die job card sê die satteliete het bewegings en temperature hier opgetel. So niks spesifiek nie. Dis duskant fokken onmoontlik om hier te oorleef, en tydmors as jy my vra, maar nou ja, hulle betaal ons nou nie vir met ons vingers in ons holle sit nie.”

 Louisa rol die planne oop bo op wat eens op die tyd een van die Wimpy se tafels was. ‘n Kopbeen wat op die tafel gelê het maak ‘n goeie paperweight om te keer dat dit weer toe rol. “Dis maar ‘n standaard shopping centre. Nêrens waar iemand diep genoeg kan wegkruip sonder dat die sensors hulle kan optel nie.”

  Sy onthou toe sy 10 jaar oud was en hulle eweskielik moes verder noord trek – dieper die binneland in. Die aanvalle uit die Oseane het te veel geword. Die wat gedink het dat hulle sommer vinnig hierdie storie met gewere en bomme sou uitsorteer het in poeier opgeeindig op die strand.

Almal het Noord getrek – Zimbabwe en Botswana was ideaal – die water kwaliteit was te sleg om enige lewe te onderhou en dit is ver genoeg van enige oseaan af. Die Tweede Groot Trek. Die wat verder wou is die woestyne in die Congo in.

 ’n Buffer van 200km is opgestel: No man’s land. Hier en daar is daar nog ’n stroompie of waterbron wat van hulle kan onderhou, maar dis moeite om tot hier te kom. Aan die ander kant is daar ’n spul bedrieërs wat vir Hulle inligting voer oor die Sapiens se bewegings. No Man’s land word elke week met chemiese wapens gebombardeer, net sodat niemand dink dat hulle kan ’n kans kan vat nie.

  Die satteliete tel so nou en dan iets op wat lyk asof iets of iemand rondbeweeg. Dis 80% van die tyd ’n sensor, die res van die tyd kom jy tussen die beendere op die uitgedroogde lyk af van iemand wat erens was waar hy nie behoort te gewees het nie. Die gas is niemand se maatjie nie.

 ”Ek skat ons kan hierdie kant op die eerste vloer begin,” hy beduie na die trappe wat op beweeg na die eerste vloer ”en dan werk ons maar ons pad deur al die winkels, al die pad terug met die grondvloer en dan eindig ons af met die basement.” Sy vinger los ’n spoor waar die stof klaar op die plan begin settle het.

Sam sit sy toolbox bo op die tafel, en maak die knippe los. Hy haal ’n swart langwerpige instrument uit. Dit sing toe hy dit aanskakel soos wat die kapasitors laai en ’n rits wit LED’s flikker op en af aan die sykante. ”Raait, laat ons gaan sodat ons kan fokkof, ek vrek vir ’n sigaret.”

[wallsitting]

"Wake up"

[wallsitting]

Hang on for new stories! A little bit preoccupied with this Beast for a moment - hang tight for excerpts!

[wallsitting]

06:53

  The fog is dense in the bathroom. Some of the tiles that have been replaced over the years don’t match the shade of cream as the originals, and the ceiling needs a lick of paint. A Barbie doll with a knitted light green dress stands on top of the toilet cistern to hide a roll of toilet paper.

  She’s standing in front of the mirror, dressed in her once-upon-a-time white nighty, her damp brown hair hanging loosely over her shoulders.

  The sound of her brushing her teeth breaks the silence. The foam is dripping out of the corner of her mouth. The Oral-B’s bristles are curled and frayed. She looks at herself and smiles while she thinks about how much she really enjoys brushing teeth. The foam starts running down her throat and she spits it out when it starts making her feel nausious. ”You know, they are all the same – every last one. But you know how it goes; tomorrow is another day.”

  Two cockroaches are spat out along with the muddy water and they wash down the drain. She is staring at her smile while she is carefully rinsing her toothbrush. ”But you know, I tell her everytime she comes by in that state, that she’s wasting her time with him.” She closes the tap and realises, as she’s looking around for the cup to put her toothbrush away, that she hasn’t rinsed her mouth yet. An antennae is floating in the cup and she spits out an arch of water after gurgling every corner of her mouth. ”You know what annoys me the most: they act as if they are doing you a favour.” She puts the pink plastic cup on the corner of the washbasin and puts the brush inside.

  Another smile flashes over her face, and she sticks her tongue out to try and pick off the antennae that’s stuck in her taste buds. ”You must remember that we’re going for a picnic tomorrow! Will you get us a bottle of wine somewhere?” She flicks it off her fingers and it falls somewhere on the floor.

  Her footsteps echo as she’s walking over the cream and avo-green lanoline tiles into the bedroom. She tightens her hair on the back of her head with a rubber band. ”I’ll have to go to the shops today to get something pretty for December holidays.”

  After putting her slippers under the bed, she climbes under the covers and holds him tight. A colony coackroaches hide away between the sheets and under the bedside table. ”Sweet dreams. I love you.” She yawns and closes her eyes.

          ”Is she going to be ok?”

  They are studying her through the one-way glass. A helicopter is circling above.

    ”I don’t know, but I believe it’s safer here. I took everything we had in the store and showed her where I put it under the bed. Hopefully this isn’t anything major and that we’ll be back before it’s too late.”

[wallsitting]

6:53 AM

Die stoom hang in die badkamer. Van die teels wat oor die jare vervang is, is nie presies dieselfde skakering cream as die wat oorspronklik daar was nie en die plafon kort ’n lagie verf. Op die toilet staan daar ‘n Barbie pop met ‘n lig groen gehekelde rok wat die toilet papier wegsteek.

  Voor die spieël staan sy in haar once-upon-a-time wit nagrok, haar klam bruin hare wat los oor haar skouers hang.

  Haar tande borsel breek die doodste stilte. Die skuim loop uit haar mond se hoek. Die Oral-B se hare staan in elke rigting gekrul. Sy kyk na haarself en glimlag terwyl sy dink aan hoeveel sy dit rerig geniet om tande te borsel. Die skuim begin in haar keel af loop en sy spoeg dit uit toe sy begin naar raak. ”Jy weet, hulle is almal dieselfde. Die laaste ene van hulle – maar ja, more is nog ‘n dag.”

  Die kraan spoeg twee kokkerotte saam met die vaal-bruin water uit en hulle was in die drein af terwyl sy vir haarself glimlag en die tandeborsel sorgvuldig onder die kraan afspoel. ”Maar jy weet mos, ek sê elke keer waneer sy in daardie toestand by my aankom, dat sy haar tyd met hom mors.” Sy draai die kraan toe en besef terwyl sy mik om haar tandeborsel in die glasie te bêre, dat sy nog haar mond moet uitspoel. ’n Voeler dryf in die koppie en nadat sy klaar geskommel en gespoel is, spoeg sy die water met ’n fontein se boog in die dreingat af. ”Wat my die meeste irreteer, is hoe hulle altyd voel hulle doen jou ’n guns” vertel sy terwyl sy die pienk koppie weer op die wasbak se hoek sit, met die tandeborstel binne-in.

  Nog ’n wit glimlag flits oor haar gesig en sy steek haar tong uit om te soek na die voeler wat aan haar taste buds vassit. ”Jy onthou dat ons more gaan piekniek hou? Jy moet vir ons erens ’n bottel wyn organise.” Sy skiet die voeler van haar vingers af en hy val erens op die vloer.

  Haar voetstappe weergalm op die cream en avo-groen lanolien teels waneer sy die kamer binne stap en sy haar hare met die rubber rekkie styf agter haar kop vasmaak. ”Ai jong, ek moet seker maar vandag by die winkels uitkom om iets mooi te kry vir Desember vakansie.”

  Nadat sy haar pantoffels onder die bed ingestoot het, klim sy onder die komberse en hou hom styf vas.’n Kolonie kokkerotte skarrel onder die bedkassie en tussen die lakens in. ”Jy moet lekker slaap. Ek’s lief vir jou.” Sy gaap en maak haar oë toe.

          ”Gaan sy ok wees?”

  Hulle kyk na haar deur die one-way glass. ’n Helikopter raas erens bo hulle.  

  ”Ek weet nie, maar ek glo dis veiliger vir haar hierso. Ek’t alles wat ons in die stoorkamer gehad het vir haar onder haar bed gesit en vir haar gewys. Hopelik is hierdie ding vinnig verby en kan ons terug wees voordat dit te laat is.”

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2

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A day at the Park

Sophia could feel the green tickles between her toes as she stepped off the path. It was her favourite time when Dad came home early from work and could take her to the park. Today she could bring her hoola-hoop along – Dad surprised her with it after coming back from the shops over the weekend. It was Barbie pink with silver streaks – making it look like a giant round candy cane. She couldn’t play with it in the flat, making today’s visit to the park extra special. Dad was sitting on the park bench, reading his book, peeking over the top every now and then to make sure she plays where he can see her, and to compliment her when she gets the hoop around her more than three times.

A few meters away, Charlie, the maltese poodle was stretching his legs. Being the pride and joy and companion of the old Jewish lady living in a flat, one level up, and 4 doors down from Sophia, he had become accustomed to a certain quality of life. Twice a day Charlie would come to the park with Mrs. Goldstein to do his business and have a run around, sniffing other dogs, sniffing trees and sniffing whatever else that was of interest.

Sophia was always happy to see Charlie, as she has never had a pet of her own. In the same way, Charlie enjoyed being petted by this miniature version of a human.  Today, however, Sophia gave Charlie a quick pat, and continued playing with her pink and silver hoola-hoop. At the same time, Charlie was more interested in the scratching sounds coming from under the ground.

A pyramidal heap of dust was lying exactly in the centre of the park – 54.79m along the long side, and 16.32m along the short side. Charlie decided to sniff the pyramid.

Dad looked up at Sophia again to see how she was doing with the hoola-hoop. She would start off well, but obviously she still had to build the stamina to maintain the hoop spinning around her. He chuckled as he looked at her contorting her tiny body trying to keep the hoola-hoop going.

Charlie started digging at the little pyramid, sticking his nose to try and find out what was below. A faint smell of sulphur made him sneeze. A little creature emerged from where the pyramid once stood – not much bigger than a cold drink can, hairless, with spikes running down its vertebrae. It growled and lunged at the little dog, exposing the two mole-like front teeth, but more impressively, the hidden jaw with 3 rows of shark-like teeth, almost seeming as if from its throat. Charlie, more curious than frightened, decided to have another sniff, but this time, the tiny creature grabbed onto the little dog with hinged, jack-knifed front legs, each sporting a substantial, razor sharp hook, and with very little effort, and within the blink of an eye, dragged Charlie into the hole where the pyramid once stood.

At around 5 o’clock, the storm clouds were getting closer and the rumbles more frequent and louder. Dad told Sophia that they should go now, and she diligently obliged, getting tired anyway of playing with the hoola-hoop. She took Dad’s hand, dragging the hoola-hoop with the other. In the background Mrs. Goldstein was calling for Charlie.

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1

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Na aanleiding van hierdie http://www.news24.com/SouthAfrica/News/Julle-maaifoedies-Max-Du-Preez-calls-ANC-leaders-20111006 het ek hierdie gemaak.

Hierdie is nou al 10 maande gelede gedoen, en die berig hier bo al ou nuus en nou nie meer cool nie, maar daar's defnitief geld in 'n vertaalde version. Met Lochner de Kock as The Wolf. 

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The lake

She wakes up from the nightmare of the lion sitting on her chest – the combination of the horrid smell and thick air, infiltrating her dreams in her only chance of escape. It has been like this for at least a week now – lack of sleep and proper nutrition are eroding the boundaries of sanity like the hot winds blowing in from the lake eats away at the mountain.

She stares out of the window – a short time ago still, her view was a postcard, but now it bubbles with sickening sulphur clouds, like puss boiling out of scorched skin. She hasn’t seen her husband or daughter since the magnificent earthquake, their livelihood the only motivation for her to keep on trying. The livestock died in the first week, the exposure to the clouds outside even preventing the decay of their bodies. The radiation of the explosion caused the lake facing side of the trees to wither away, leaving only halves of trees trying to reach for sunlight through the dense smog. Her diet has consisted of cheeses, pickled and tinned food, but the air is filling up her stomach as she tries to eat, leaving only space for a bite or two. She still has some water in a storage tank, supposed to have been used for the vegetable garden and fruit orchards.

She sits in the custardy light shining in the lounge, switching between radio stations, hoping to hear something about the events she is experiencing, but the only broadcast she can hear seems to be from the late 1980’s – her limited German vocabulary being able to decode something about the excitement of the Berlin wall being torn down. She has to listen carefully as she rotates the dial, hoping to find out some news of what she is experiencing – all her means to communicating with the outside world has been eradicated by the tremor and the subsequent explosion. Her biggest wish is to hear the rumbling of the diesel truck driving down the little pass leading down to the cottage, returning from its business in town.

She lights a candle, the flame mimicking her weakness coming from the sulphuric air. Looking and digging around in the messy kitchen for a can opener, she finds a drawing her 4 year old daughter made on the day of the tremors. It shows a yellow square house with a red triangle roof, two blue windows and a brown door. Grey smoke curls from the yellow chimney. Under an apple tree their little family poses, hand in hand, broad smiles on everybody’s faces – she is sitting on her favourite spot on her dad’s shoulders. In the top right-hand corner the sun is peeking out, the rest of the sky filled with clouds – clouds forming a face not dissimilar to that of the grinning lion of her dreams.

She stabs the can of tinned viennas with the can opener, prying the lid off with the crude instrument. The sound of the metal on metal reminds her of the cries of the thousands of baby birds as the yellow cloud came ashore and occupied the forest. Finally having opened the tin, she carefully reaches for a vienna, a shock of pain shooting from her hand to the rest of her body – looking at her hand she can see a gash from her right thumb’s first knuckle, reaching into the muscle on her palm. Her brain knows that it should be panicking, but the lack of oxygen and the abundance of toxins in the air delaying the electric messages being fired between the neural transmitters.   

She opens a tap in the bathroom, as she has done so many times before, the blood leaving a tale of her efforts to remember where the bathroom was. The thick skin is surgically splayed open, and she can see the layers of skin, tendons and delicate muscle pumping out the blood, as if her body was trying to rid itself of Life. The tap sputters, producing a mix of muddy water and cockroaches that hid away in the pipes to avoid this terrible fate themselves. She grins as they run up her bloody arm and hinds inside her clothing – their scratchy legs being her only contact with life in days.

As she lies on the floor littered with broken tiles, a view of the ceiling is followed by the faces of her loving husband and child – the grinning lion circling around her and giving her a chance for a last goodbye before tearing into her chest.

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The Sea

Lieutenant Jackson was strapping himself into the life support system. There was serious damage to the vessel, and he was the only person remotely able to go under the surface to see what’s going on.

It’s been 5 days since the attack on the city. He was one of a lucky few who was in the harbour when it hit, and managed to board the escape pod. The cacophony of screams is still echoing in his head, and even though he hasn’t slept in more than 100 hours, he might as well have just woken up. He knows that the task at hand is to reach the Mediterranean to look for survivors – it’s all part of the procedures that were set out when the scientists first came aware of it.

No-one knows how many there are, no-one knows whether there’s anything left of the human race – the attack obliterating all the advances made in communication over the last 20 years. All they can do now is to use the navigation methods of the early explorers, and try to find Europe. The lack of artificial light making stars brighter than ever before actually makes it more difficult – familiar stellar structures disappearing in a mess of light.

He enters the water and is disoriented for a moment trying to figure out what’s to and what’s bottom, fiddling with his torch to see where the ship’s hull is. They need to keep artificial light as little as possible for fear of being spotted, but it’s not needed since the glowing creatures of the abyss are creating a mirror of the starry sky – boundaries between hell and earth disappearing with the appearance of their master.

It was exactly 671 days ago that the scientists became aware of it. Following a massive earthquake on the eastern seaboard, research submarines sent back the first images of what could be called the mouth and legs of the creature. At first they thought it was at least five creatures – the total number of crab-like legs observed equating to 37, and photographic stills of 5 grotesque heads – resembling lions’ heads, except for the 9 rows of black teeth set against the albinic hue of the creature, feeding on a whale carcass. Never was the creature visible enough to be able to see the full grotesqueness, and then also, the full threat it held for the whole of human civilisation. 

He reaches the auxiliary propeller, the main propulsion system damaged with the shockwave of the explosion of the oil refineries in the harbour. He finds his target and sees that he was going to struggle to cut through the thick clumps of hair and scalp coiled around the drive shaft. They have no other option than to keep on going, and they need to go as fast as possible.

An earthquake of incredible magnitude hit the city early on a Tuesday morning, most of Manhattan still flushing bagels down with coffee. Central park turned into Atlantis, taking with it the first victims – a mix between joggers, hobos and squirrels. News helicopters buzzed in, staring at the massive hole with their robotic monocles. On CNN, NBC and Fox, news editors were scrambling through their files, trying to speculate which Middle Eastern country could take the blame. If only they had known that there was a truth superseding all truths that were being recited at the time.

He flicks open the knife – the sub surface organic luminescence lighting bringing the brightly polished cutting edge to life. As he starts cutting the clumps of hair, halves of faces come loose with it – terror cemented in the fine muscles, people who have obviously had a glimpse of hell in their last moments of breathing. With the propeller starting to turn, the familiar song of the electric engines gives hope for the quest that still lies ahead.

Helicopters became midges as thousands of tongues leaped out of Central cavern, grabbing onto all life, and dragging it into the waiting mouths of whatever sinister creature, or creatures that lived below. Everybody fled, running to perceived safety, just to be overwhelmed by millions of eyeless creatures pouring out of sewers and water pipes. Although not much bigger than handbag dogs, the creatures leapt into the mouth, eating the bones and innards, the peels all that were left. Nothing was spared, no humans, no dogs, even the millions of New York City rats being eradicated within the course of half an hour.

Lieutenant Jackson stood on the deck, removing the weight belts, helmet and breathing equipment. As he stepped into the candle-lit cabin, he was greeted by uncertain faces of relief.