Creative Writing 1

Our Creative Writing group members produce pieces each month following a suggested theme or topic. You can read their contributions below.

JULY 2026

The short task for June was to describe something that induces a sense of wonder. Di Young’s delicate “Fragility” was chosen for you to enjoy:

FRAGILITY

Flood detritus. Dried skeins of algae scum, branches, plastic tops. Disorder. Then, a glimpse of whiteness.

A small straight log and growing out of cracks in the wet wood was an inflorescence of tiny white pleated fungi. Some were fully unfurled - oyster mushrooms? They were pure white and further along were clusters of tiny clones, just beginning. Tiny dots…perfection.

©DIANA YOUNG

The longer task was to write a story that blends modern technology with ancient myth(s). A taste of Elaine Smith’s

interesting description of the development of the concept of time appears below.

THE RHYTHM OF DIVINE DEVOTION

The medieval monks of the St. Benedictine Monastery were attuned to the precise rhythm of time in

their religious order. Accurate timing for divine devotion, silent prayers, and productive pursuits decided

their day. Lately, however, age-old religious rituals were succumbing to lethargy.

Monks used their breath to fine-tune time. The cooking of an egg was measured by one hundred slow

breaths. A Bible verse was read aloud in measured, baritone exhalations. Silence was counted

timeously in heartbeats. Their breath became the pendulum of time. The heartbeat was a dependable

constant, yet its rhythm hesitated at times. The monks exact time slots for their religious tasks were

programmed to breathing calculations.

External timing leaned heavily on the elements. The night sky guided their nighttime vigils and defined

the seasons. Yet, continuous clouds often dampened the monks’ observations. The sundial lost its

reliability. The water clock’s stagnation during frozen winters rendered it useless.

Recognizing the crisis, the Abbot called for urgent inventions from mechanically minded brothers and

masters of the sciences to bring precision back to the Abbey.

Doubts quickly echoed among the traditionalists. Devout followers saw change as sinful to the doctrine,

“Would it be less holy to not depend on the sun to say it is time to pray?”

“Are we to lose our body’s natural rhythms if we depend on chaotic mechanical aids to dictate our

time?”

Debates flared up in the cloisters. Some argued for, and some against, these potential advances.

“The sun cannot be depended upon,” a forward-thinking monk argued. “Clouds cause a fickleness in its

accuracy. Sunless days make timing devotion impossible.”

“But the rhythm of the heartbeat varies,” observed a monk scholar. “At times it slows, and other times it

speeds.”

In the monastery library the lector, handicapped by his breath’s huskiness and blurred eyesight,

practiced his readings aloud for the next day, struggling in the poor light.

Meanwhile, the scribe, Brother John, in the scriptorium was once again loaded with the exhaustive task

of copying the scriptio continua—the continuous, unbroken scripture—onto his scroll. He decided to find

another way. Surrounded by candlelight shadows, he began designing a shortcut. He separated

complicated Latin words. Only the scratching of his quill against his scroll, disturbed the silence.

He introduced a space, allowing pauses for a breath. He invented a comma to inhale, and a full stop to

rest. He started the next sentence in a new paragraph. The text was stretched out but added profound

meaning. Simpler, it made silent reading possible. While reading aloud was believed to decode words

in the brain, John saw a pathway to improve daily life; reading must be faster and quieter.

Yet, Brother John knew the Abbeys traditional views. Any alteration to the sacred scriptures was

considered dangerous, threatening to render them inaccurate.

Meantime, Brother Paul, a master tinker always grappling with mechanical wheels and gear

experiments, began measuring the rhythm of a pulse with a single gear shift. He learnt that a heavy weight,

attached to a rope, caused a gear to shift with absolute precision. Each falling weight moved the

gear—a pace at a time. Through this controlled device, he discovered the advanced geared clock

mechanism. His escapement invention allowed controlled movement to shift from go to stop.

When Brother John and Brother Paul compared their inventions, they realized the true significance of

their efforts. The rhythmic tick-tock of the mechanical escapement matched perfectly with the breathing

rhythm of reading the newly developed spaced words.

With one monk inventing a mechanical clock to chime on the hour, and another inventing word spacing

to increase manuscript production, a whole new era of Enlightenment emerged. Intellectual thought

processes accelerated, creating new quandaries and questions. Experiments and equations sought

answers, stimulating learning and literacy across communities.

Predictably, murmurs and mutterings of the devil’s doings echoed through the drafty quadrangles and

corridors of the monastery. Traditional clergymen condemned the inventions, citing sorcery as their

core.

“We are inviting demonic hindrances into our Order,” one anxious monk cried, deciding Armageddon

had arrived.

But the proof was in the prayer. The relieved lector read the spaced scriptures with appropriate stops to

the congregation; with ease of eyestrain, he maintained his breath and rhythm.

Worldwide advanced innovations stemmed directly from the monks’ quest for order. Word spacing

encouraged literacy and cognitive processing, allowing speed-reading to surpass previous limitations

and increase brain absorption. The mechanical clock’s discovery, a fundamental building block for

machinery, gave rise to the Industrial Revolution. Punch-card use automated by clockwork led to

modern computer programming.

Today, orbiting satellites guide our communication, weather, and seasons. Medieval monks discovered

human innovation does not distance us from the divine but brings us closer. The steady tick-tock of the

gear and measured pauses harmonized human life with the grandest clockwork of all -the universe

itself, keeping us aligned with the eternal rhythm of divine devotion.

JUNE 2026

Our May assignment was to develop characters with faults. In the short task, the protagonist comes crashing down to earth when he or she hears something revealing about themselves. In the longer story, a character makes a mistake. Please enjoy Elaine Smith and Di Young’s short pieces, and Mel Cloete and Jeannie Taljard’s longer ones.

LOVE ME DO!

‘You dare not go to her house, she’s always trying to palm something onto

you, have you noticed? I hear this conversation from behind the closed public

toilet door.

As I hear the door bang and the voices fade, I realise it’s true. Why do I? I

justify- giving is pleasurable. But is it really? I search for the answer, tucked

away inside me is fear. Fear of not being liked for who I am. Giving myself

over in conversation, friendship seems never enough. I reinforce it with a gift,

just to be loved more.

SOCK IT TO THEM

Angus dribbled the ball towards the group on the field. As he approached he overheard Johnno..”check those boots on Angus...what a dick” with his back to Angus, facing his group of supporters. Angus avoided confrontation in general so headed towards the goal while he processed his options. He felt like punching the macho wally but knew that was no real solution to feeling ‘outside.’

What did Mum always say? Never make others feel less and never allow yourself to be diminished by

others. Just keep your own side of the street clean.

He kicked a mighty goal straight in.

HEAVEN SENT

“Papa, can I learn the piano?” nagged Franz as he listened to the lesson given to his older brother,

Ferdinand, in their confined sitting room, in their small house off Herenstrasse.

“Not yet Little One, your fingers cannot yet reach a span of notes. Give it time.”

“Please Papa!” pleaded Franz as he squeezed up close to the piano, noting the small chips on the

once smooth keys.

“I’ll teach you once you turn five,” offered Ignaz generously from the adjacent dining room. “But

you’ll have to wait until then.”

“Okay… but I’ll sit here until then…” insisted Franz with his head cocked to the left, listening intently

as Ferdinand’s lesson continued.

******

“But I’ve outgrown Ignaz, Pap,” whined Franz. “I’m now improving his technique, and I’m convinced

that he’s tone deaf. He can’t hear the voices in the music. He thinks I’m lying about them. Yet… I

hear their vices plainly… clearly…as if they are talking to me. I want to write them down, so I don’t

forget them. Their songs are like angel’s voices.”

Franz Theodore frowned. “I’ll not have you be arrogant in my house. Apologise to Ignaz and go up to

the attic and pray. You’ll have no further lessons unless you humble yourself.” From the corner of his

eye, Franz glimpsed Ignaz and Ferdinand smirking at his expense.

*****

Years later, the four Schubert men played together. Franz Theodore on the piano; Franz on the viola;

Ferdinand on the violin and Ignaz on the cello. The quartet melodied along until Franz added an

adaption as a counterpoint to the others. Franz Theodore’s face reddened to explosive proportions,

while trying to concentrate on keeping the tempo required. Ignaz glared at Franz as he bowed the

strings as dictated by the sheet music, but eventually the song stuttered into silence.

“Get out!” commanded Franz Theodore, having reached his limit with his youngest son. “If you

cannot play with us, then find your own group. But you will not insult us with your showing off.”

Eyes down Franz packed his viola and left.

******

Ferdinand’s composition was being presented at court. All the important dignitaries and foreign

diplomats were in attendance. Franz secretly went to witness his brother’s achievement. They had

practiced separately and talked little since his father’s angry outburst. Franz was proud to be

associated with the Schubert tradition of composers, wishing that his father would agree to hear

some of his most recent compositions, or even agree to play the four-handed Fantasia in F minor

which he had just completed.

The crowd hushed. Ferdinand played. The audience clapped politely. Ferdinand bowed and the

crowd turned their attention to the food, drinks and social gossip. The ladies showed off their

oriental fans, the newest fad in Vienna, while the men bowed in greeting to each other. Unnoticed,

Franz slipped onto the piano stool and air-played one of his recent songs, his fingers hovering

tantalisingly close to the keys themselves. Franz played in his mind, as if sleepwalking. Soon the

room grew silent; the guests listened intently, many smiling and nodding. When he stopped the

wave of applause struck him. “Encore! Encore!” echoed in the room. Franz was bewildered – then

realised he had been playing. A glance at Franz Theodore and Ferdinand told him everything. He felt

guilty yet elated. Then Salieri approached demanding, “Whose pieces were those? It seems the

whole Schubert family is on show tonight.” Before Franz could claim ownership, Ferdinand was

already at Salieri’s elbow, whispering in his ear. Franz could not catch the words, but Ferdinand

seemed both embarrassed and victorious. Then Salieri took Ferdinand by the arm and moved

towards Franz Ferdinand smiling.

*****

It was a lie, of course. I had composed the pieces – any fool could hear the difference. The

audience’s applause clearly favoured mine. Yet, Salieri invited Ferdinand into the court’s musical

group for training. What is the point of humility if one’s best creations are never valued. I decided

then to be my own man. I would acknowledge the King but would bow and scrape to no man. I was

all of five feet. Not the tallest gentleman in the land, but a giant musically. I would not let my

nickname, “Schwammerl” (Little Mushroom) stick as the final word about me.

*****

They cannot ignore me now. I’ve been invited by the best of Vienna’s society to perform in their

parlours and been celebrated as the best composer in Vienna. I have shown the truth of my skill and

brilliance. My latest work, “Erlkönig” is being acclaimed by the King himself. Perhaps he sees himself

as the Father protecting his son against the allure of the Elf King?

*****

Ironically, just as I am acknowledged by all in Vienna, my health fails me. At only one score years and

ten, I feel a heaviness in my spirit. The deep-seated cough has not abated as Spring arrived. The

blood on my handkerchief this morning bodes of consumption. Just as I feared. I am finally humbled

by my own pathetic body.

Yet I hear their songs, still…and wish to write them down.

PUSHME-PULLYOU

He even hoarded raindrops. Silver and grey rivulets, woven into a sliding slipping

opacity smeared across the screen until the road disappeared completely. Only then

would he allow one timid swish of the wiper. She would close her eyes, holding onto

the sides of the passenger seat, expecting the crash at any moment.

In the shed he hoarded eggboxes, jam jars (still smeared with jam), receipts,

magazines, bottles, books, old (dirty) serviettes, nails, plugs, bolts, corks, clothes

and shoes. His Prudential Savings Account book from 1960. His National

Geographics from 1952.

He hoarded emails. Thousands and thousands until the computer said no more and

left the building.

His garage was stacked to the roof with old newspapers, letters unopened, empty

bottles, old Castrol Oil containers, half an Alfa engine, dead lawnmowers, planks,

treadmill (never used), rusty bicycles, a doll’s house he was going to fix, rope, cords, you

name it, it was there.

You never know when it might come in useful, he said. If he could find it.

She was not sure why she had married him. If only she’d had warning. She was

meticulous – clothes neatly folded, hangers all facing the same way. No mess on

her shiny counters, not a book out of place on the bookshelves and a sheen on the

floor. She had strict routines – washing Mondays, cleaning Tuesdays and eggs for

breakfast only on Wednesdays and Saturdays. She managed her household allowance carefully and nervously.

She tried to pick up after him. She bought him storage solutions, suggested shelving

fixtures and even rearranged the garage for him once. In a few days it was back to

what the children called “a black hole” and the storage solutions remained empty. If

she tried to throw anything away, he would retrieve it from the bin and the arguments

would go on all night.

But he was a good man, a good father. She endured him stoically.

And then bad times came and they had to move. From a very big house with a

double garage into a modest suburban home with almost no garage at all. While he

wasn’t looking, she sold what she could and surreptitiously managed to take a few

small things to charity shops. But the garage and the shed remained full of his stuff.

It seemed that it physically hurt him to throw things away. As moving day drew

closer, she realized that she would have to take matters into her own hands.

She called an old friend in another town and asked if her husband could stay there

for the weekend. She told her husband that the old friend had begged him to come

and he went off with a spring in his step.

She marshalled her book club and bridge friends, she called for five skips and strong

men to go with them. Within two days, several cups of tea, a bakery of sandwiches

and a few cases of wine, the mess was gone. She personally loaded the skips with

stacks of Time Magazines (still in their plastic covers), boxes full of Readers Digests

and fifteen black plastic rubbish bags – full of rubbish, she supposed. She didn’t

even look.

The move came and went, and strangely at first he didn’t seem to notice that his stuff

was gone. She was quietly proud of herself, and, as she cleaned her bright little

home, she hoped that somehow he had turned over a new leaf.

But slowly, the single garage began to fill, until there was no space for their small car.

The drawers of his desk started to spill over with old yoghurt cups, discarded tissues,

medicine bottles and other detritus that she was afraid would attract rodents and

worse.

She had had enough. She gave the kitchen a thorough clean, wiped her hands on

her apron and appeared before him.

I want a divorce, she said.

Go ahead, he said. But it’s going to be difficult. Where are you going to find our

original marriage certificate, birth certificates, antenuptial contract, passports and all

the other papers you will have to produce? You threw them all away.

MAY 2026

The task for June was to write stories in the first person. The topic for the 60-word stories was to write in the first person as you witness a shocking experience. Jennifer Smith’s “Surfs Up” and Diana Young’s “Brotherhood” were chosen for publication.

For the 800 – 850 word story we wrote a first person account of an event, crime or catastrophe as an eyewitness. Read Fran de Waal’s heartwarming and funny “Harry’s Marvellous Adventure” and

Jennifer Smith’s important and thought-provoking “Special Victims” below.

SURF’S UP

I watched a surfer miss a wave, a dark shadow in the water with him, then disappear into a

trough. Concerned, I waited for him to reappear, and he did, punching at a shark as he

struggled to keep his board between them! A huge wave washed them into the shallows and

the shark thrashed away, to pandemonium on the beach!

©JENNIFER SMITH

BROTHERHOOD

A chanting group around two sweaty boys. Shirt ripped, legs flailing, Reuben…my autistic brother.

No good staging a rescue – humiliation. I moved where he could see me, mud in his eyes.

Crouching down I said

“Sock it to him Rube – you can!’

bully in the face. Blood spurted.

HARRY’S MARVELLOUS ADVENTURE

I left before dawn, when the city still belonged to delivery trucks, joggers, and the occasional

insomniac with too much coffee and too many considerations.

No one saw me at first. They surely speculated later – how could something so large move so

quietly? – but in truth, Johannesburg at sunrise is uptight, reluctant to face another day of

bleeding ulcers and demanding bosses.

I slipped through the steel surroundings that had slumped when my enclosure was flooded by

the previous night’s heavy rainfall. There was no grand jailbreak. No roaring declaration of

freedom. Just a high jump, a slight bounce, and a decision.

When the sun lifted itself over the mine dumps, I was padding down a suburban street in

Parkview, pausing now and then to inspect wheelie bins with mild disappointment. A

dachshund spotted me and attempted a heroic confrontation, producing a sound somewhere

between a squeak toy and a boiling kettle. A weird animal – the body too long to hold its own

weight. Unimpressive.

In Tyrone Avenue, I peered into the window of a charming little café, ludicrously named

Blind Tiger. A man in cycling gear burst inside.

“There’s a golden retriever the size of a horse outside!”

“It’s called a lion, Pieter,” someone replied, without looking up from their laptop.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Pieter. “Lions are in the zoo.”

“So are your common sense and your brakes, apparently,” the other muttered.

“Look, man, there it is!”

But by then I was gone, bored with excitable human behaviour.

Out on the street, a man was putting up a poster. A woman stopped at a traffic light, one hand

holding a coffee cup, the other a cellphone. She read the poster aloud: LION SPOTTED

NEAR ZOO LAKE!!!

She called her husband on speaker phone.

“No, dear, it’s fake. I see on X that there’s a film shoot. You should see the jokes on social

media. One chap says he saw a lion buying biltong in Greenside. The lion waved at him.”

Aha, at last I had reached Zoo Lake. I took a closer look at a group of geese. They escalated

into outraged honking. I tried a tentative roar to put them at ease – more out of etiquette than

aggression – but the geese responded by doubling down. I left them to their opinions.

It was around mid-morning when I encountered the bandstand. A neighbourhood brass band,

blissfully unaware of the unfolding drama, had gathered for their weekly rehearsal. They

were halfway through a slightly off-tempo rendition of Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika when I

wandered into view and sat down directly in front of them.

There was a long, suspended moment. The conductor lowered his baton. The trombonist

stopped mid-slide. The drummer tapped out one final, uncertain beat. I sat dead still, tilting

my head to listen.

“Well,” said the conductor finally, in the tone of a man choosing dignity over panic, “it’s

better not to run. So, let’s continue.”

And so they did.

They started again – shakier this time, but louder. I blinked twice, then stretched myself out

on the soft green grass, resting my head on my paws. I was a captive audience, in the most

literal sense.

Passersby froze. Photos were taken. Videos were uploaded.

On X: “Guys, the lion is attending a concert. He prefers brass to jazz.”

By noon, the Zoo management had mobilized a search. Police sirens wove through traffic,

officials argued over jurisdiction, and a helicopter circled, looking for a place to land. But

when they reached the bandstand, I was fast asleep.

The band, now visibly exhausted but oddly proud, continued to play in shifts, as if they had

collectively decided this was their civic duty. A small crowd had gathered at a cautious

distance – whispering, filming, and occasionally applauding between pieces.

Eventually, a veterinarian approached with a tranquilizer dart, moving slowly and

respectfully. The band softened to a gentle, wavering melody, as though scoring the moment.

Years later, someone would still say, “My uncle saw Harry the lion. He sat through an entire

concert. Didn’t clap once.”

But if you walk past the bandstand on a quiet morning, just as the light turns the city gold,

you might notice something: an odd stillness, a lingering sense of wonder. For one brief,

improbable day, Johannesburg and the wild simply enjoyed the music.

©FRAN DE WAAL

SPECIAL VICTIMS

“911. Please state your emergency.”

“Can you help my brother? I said urgently. “Daddy is beating him again! Come quickly,

please!”

“Yes, I can. Are you in your home? Is there another adult there with you?” the operator

asked.

“Mommy is here but she is not helping!” I replied, my voice shrill with panic and frustration.

“What is your name, please?” the operator asked.

“Amy. Amy Emerson. My brother is Tommy. Please come!” I pleaded.

“Do you know your address, Amy?” asked the operator, simultaneously searching for

Emerson telephone listings in the call area code and alerting Child Services to the call.

“Uh… It’s Prospect Road. Number 11 on our door.”

“What suburb? I see it. …Auberge Heights? I am sending a police car now. Be brave, Amy!

They will be with you very shortly.”

“Yes!” I began to cry with relief.

“Could you call your mommy to the telephone for me, please?” she asked.

I ran to Mommy’s room and banged on the door. It was locked. She didn’t answer.

“Mommeee! Please…” I begged. No response.

Back to the phone. “She won’t answer,” l told the operator.

“I will stay on the line with you until the police arrive,” she told me. “While we wait together, could you tell me what has happened?”

“I don’t know what Tommy did wrong, but Daddy called him a ‘little bastard’ and dragged him to his room by his hair! Then he started yelling and beating him,” I confided, breathlessly “Are the police nearly here yet? Daddy will be terribly cross if he knows I called you. …I saw

911 on TV one time and tonight I didn’t know who else could help us.”

“Does your daddy hit you?”

“No, because the school nurse saw my marks and they told him that he must stop, or else.

He still hits Mommy and Tommy though. I hate it.”

Just then I heard Daddy’s footsteps in the passage. Tommy had stopped making noises like a puppy getting hurt. Dropping the telephone receiver behind the couch, I scuttled into thefurthest corner, hoping he wouldn’t notice me.

“Hello?” the operator called.

“Shhh!” I hissed.

“Who are you talking to, Amy?” asked Daddy in a threatening voice.

“N…nobody. There’s just me here…” I trailed off, tears running down my face.

“Get lost!” he said, and I went, giving him lots of space.

Some minutes later the doorbell rang. My heart began to pound. Daddy ignored it and it rang again, and again. He marched to the door and flung it open. “What…?” he began angrily, then saw the police officers at the door.

“Good evening, sir! There has been a report of a disturbance at this address. May we come in to ask you a few questions, please?” one of them asked.

Caught unawares, Daddy took a step backwards and the officers and a lady came in fast. I

was peeping around the door and the lady came and put her arms around me. I hid my face against her. Safe! She felt like a comfy cushion and smelled of flowers.

Daddy could tell that I had been waiting for them. “You little b…! What have you done?” he exploded, making a grab for me, but the officer stepped between us. The other one went to find Tommy, who was all floppy and his face didn’t look right. I began to shake so hard that I couldn’t stand up.

“These two are going to need medical attention. Where is your wife, their mother, I presume,

Mr Emerson?” asked the first officer, looking very stern.

“That lazy cow has spent all day in bed today!” Daddy told them.

“No! Yesterday, they got in a fight,” I told them from the police lady’s sheltering arms, my

voice shaking. “They shouted and Daddy hit Mommy - a lot. Tommy and I hid under my bed.

When we woke up it was all quiet again.”

Then the police lady took Tommy and I out to the patrol car to wait for the ambulance. One of the officers broke down the bedroom door and found Mommy inside, in a coma, I later learned.

Daddy was taken to jail for hurting us.

-ooOOoo-

Several years on and Tommy and I are in foster care, in different families. That police lady was our assigned Social Services case worker. Our mother has palsy after her beatings. She is safe in a supported living facility. We sometimes see each other.

Once, I heard my foster mother tell our neighbour that they had locked up my father and

thrown away the key. “They haven’t thrown it far enough then,” she replied, “because he can still apply for parole a decade or so into his sentence.”

So soon? An icy finger ran down my spine.

©JENNIFER SMITH

APRIL 2026

Most of us have treasures from our childhood, whether well remembered and displayed, or hidden somewhere in a dark cupboard. Our task for March was to choose two or three objects (real or imagined) from our childhood home and use them to build characters for that time in our lives.

Melanie Cloete’s short “Straight and True” was chosen for publication, together with the longer “The Seven Spines of Jerusalem” written by Fran de Waal and Di Young’s “Pledged”.

STRAIGHT AND TRUE

“Four!” I shout excitedly as the ball speeds passed the circular flowerbed. Dad

laughs as self-appointed umpire, while Ian grows more determined to bowl me out.

The balls bounce evenly on my Dad’s home-laid front path. It is perfectly straight;

plain cement regularly used for neighbourhood matches. Next in, dwarfed by the bat,

is Christopher. Dad throws gentle underarm balls.

THE SEVEN SPINES OF JERUSALEM

The polished wood gleamed with creamy yellow-brown tones, shot through with dark

streaks. The jewellery box was the pride of the corner cabinet, sitting behind leaded

glass panels alongside other relics: a heavy pair of faded copper binoculars, a

Mauser C96, and Die Medalje voor de Anglo-Boere Oorlog on its green, red, and

white ribbon.

“Do not fiddle with these”, Pa warned.

Despite the order, the urge to admire the box was overpowering. What was inside?

Why wouldn’t it open? Whenever the house was quiet, I would steal it from the

cabinet, hide under the dining room table, and stroke the silky yellow side-panels.

The side-panels were arranged like the spines of a book, marked with Roman

numerals from I to VII. On the lid, an inscription was etched in Blackletter script: JERUSALEM

surrounded by colourful wood inlays. Did my religious Oupa long to visit

the sacred city?

Then one day, while the family was away, I fidgeted with one of the spines and felt it

shift. I slid it upward, revealing a small lock with a keyhole no larger than a match

head. Tucked into the back of the spine was a tiny iron key. It fitted perfectly. The lid

finally yielded.

The box had been a gift to my fierce, defiant Ouma. She hated the British.

“God will punish England”, she used to say. But God worked in strange ways; Britain

won the war, and Ouma was left with nightmares of dead children and disease. She

died before I had the sense to ask her about the box.

Pa told me Oupa had made it while he was a prisoner, caught at Ladysmith during

the Second Boer War. He said Oupa had carved it piece-by-piece from hard African

Olive wood using nothing but a pocketknife.

“Here’s the riff-raff—die gespuis,” Oupa said, propping himself up. His blue eyes

twinkled behind round-framed glasses, his face still soft and unlined like a baby’s.

“And here is my genant,” he beamed at his namesake, my brother, Daniël Jacobus.

The gespuis gathered around his bed. He tried to move, but his legs seemed to have

forgotten where the floor was. The frail-care room smelled of disinfectant and

antiseptic soap, masked by the slightly sour scent of ageing skin. Next to his bed lay

a worn Bible, bound in brown leather.

“How are you, Oupa?”

He smiled broadly, but the expression appeared automatically and vanished just as

quickly. In the past, Oupa would recite his homemade nursery rhymes:

Buller crossed the Tugela with trumpet and drum,

“Stand aside, Joubert — here I come!”

But Joubert on the kopje, calm as could be,

Sipped his coffee and said, “We shall see.”

Buller marched back down the hill,

Joubert stayed there very still.

“Try again tomorrow, do!”

Called old Joubert, “We’ll wait for you”.

Oupa, do you remember? Buller crossed the Tugela?

He looked confused.

I pressed further. Oupa, please tell us about the jewellery box. The one you made

during the war?

He grew agitated, tugging at his pyjama top as if it were suffocating him. A shutter

fell over his face; his eyes went dull and wet.

Nurse! Where is my breakfast? I have not had my breakfast!

An empty porridge bowl sat on a tray just outside the door. The riff-raff stepped softly

out of the room. A heavy weight filled my chest; I had caused my sweet Oupa

nothing but anguish.

Then came the day I finally peered inside. The box was lined with blue velvet, hand-

sewn into a perfect nest. At first, it seemed empty, but my fingers caught on a hard

object hidden in the lining: a rose-gold wedding band with a warm, blush-hued tone.

It was much too big for my finger. I noticed tiny writing on the inside, but a car pulled

into the driveway before I could read it. In a panic, I hid the ring and slipped the box

back into the cabinet.

Days later, I returned with Pa’s magnifying glass. The inscription read: Tot ons weer

ontmoet—Until we meet again.

Was it Ouma’s ring? Why didn’t she wear it? If Oupa wrote it before prison, it made

no sense—they hadn’t married until after the war.

Eventually, I called a family meeting. I was at that dramatic age, so I requested

everyone sit around the table: Pa, Ma, and my siblings. I fetched the box and gave a

performance a magician would envy, stretching the tension until the final reveal: the

ring.

Even Pa was caught by surprise. He took the gold band, reading the inscription

slowly as if he had just realised something immensely important.

“This is how I think it was”, Pa said, his voice trembling. “Perhaps Oupa never made

this box. Perhaps Pieter Viljoen made it.”

He fell silent for a few minutes, a deep frown carving into his forehead.

“Tannie Rita once said Ouma was heartbroken when Pieter was captured and sent to

the detention camp in Ceylon. This box must have arrived with the last Boer

prisoners in September 1903.”

He looked at the ring, then at the empty space in the cabinet.

“Pieter’s remains did not come back with it. Ouma married Oupa a few years later,

but it wasn’t a happy marriage. She was always difficult, always quarrelsome.”

The jewellery box wasn't a romantic tribute to her husband; it was a symbol of all that

was lost and of a man who never came home.

PLEDGED

What possessed a tall, quiet young southern Irish apprentice, qualified in haberdashery, to get on a ship and travel to South Africa? The worst of the Irish potato famine was between 1846 and 1849 …more than 50 years before but the impact must have been profound. What is more, he persuaded his betrothed to join him. They were not that young, having courted carefully for many years. They married in the Gardens in 1907.

What possessed them to head to Rhodesia with two daughters aged three and six? Queen Victoria had only granted a Royal Charter in 1889. The Pioneer column (which contained my other grandfather –this one from Essex) established Fort Salisbury in 1890. No internet, communications only one step up from a runner with a stick. How did it work in those days? The train from Cape Town to Bulawayo was 1500 miles – a journey by steam train complete with flying black smuts and took days. Did those little girls run up and down the corridors? Play with the basins in the compartments that flushed real water? Climb up to the top bunk? What did they eat? What did they take with them?

Hanging on the dining room wall of the substantial double storey home in Salisbury was The Pledge.

Carefully contained in a sombre frame The Pledge declared that Jennie Violet Dann and George Elcoate Smith had signed that they would never allow a drop of alcohol to pass their lips. In Ireland.

Now Jennie Violet Smith was a reliable member of the Presbytarian church in Salisbury and mother of four children. Jennie was not tall and never seemed to change shape. Grey hair carefully brushed in soft waves, a long nose she passed on to my mother and one of her sons. Alas for my mother: her big siste r was very prettyand very Presbytarian. My mother was handicapped by her aquiline nose and a lack of enthusiasm for the church. Jennie dressed carefully in soft florals, her low bosom connecting with her waist somehow and always a brooch tastefully pinned to a shoulder and… necklaces. She smiled, spoke softly but I never heard her laugh out loud. Her griddle scones were famous. Her relationship with the minister of the church was deferential. My mother never forgave the tiresome Scottish man for walking over the material she had laid out on the carpet to cut out a challenging dress project. Although she was on her knees (with scissors) she was not part of his flock, so beneath his notice.

George Smith remained quiet, gentle and without alcohol. But he did manage to effectively establish a very successful gent’s outfitting business - George Smith Limited. His moustache tickled. Sadly he died young, in a Johannesburg hospital, attended by his adult older daughter. At once his sons took on the business and the daughters took on their mother. Without alcohol.

The gaggle of grandchildren that flowed in and out of the house all knew the Rule. Husbands and wives knew The Rule. At Christmas gatherings Jennie Violet was loved, respected. She loved the sherry trifle – always had second helpings. Nobody said a word.

At Christmas the men separated behind the bedroom wing of the farmhouse – out of sight. The three year old and the six-year-old girls both had husbands now, and two children apiece. Two boy children had been born in Rhodesia (now managing George Smith Limited) adding nine further offspring expected to follow The Pledge. The women operated with practised skill in the kitchen preparing the glorious excesses of Christmas. The unspoken habit of The Pledge remained and Violet’s wishes were respected…but not necessarily followed by the men. Nor, later, by the women.

Those of the grandchildren who couldn’t hide or run away were solemnly prayed over at the knee of Jennie on the sofa and reminded of the dangers of Drink. The simple gold rings on her fingers were loose.

“Yes Gran.” It just wasn’t worth engaging. We were marked for life. But not all of us. The sheep separated from the goats. Funny how most of the goats were boys….

The tentacles of the Pledge were in the DNA. Of the herd of the second generation only a couple of goats kicked over the traces when they were safely far away at university but once graduation and reality grounded them…was it The Pledge that reasserted responsibility? Perhaps.

Jennie Violet presided over her Rhodesian tribe with quiet devotion and scones. She wore her floral

dresses a little darker in pattern and a little longer. The brooches and necklaces remained but the whole ensemble was joined by an ebony walking stick.

She died two months short of her ninetieth birthday, genuinely mourned by her large, close family. The wake served tea (and cakes).

Her coffin was distressingly small.

Melanie Cloete’s short “Straight and True” was chosen for publication, together with the longer “The Seven Spines of Jerusalem” written by Fran de Waal and Di Young’s “Pledged”.

STRAIGHT AND TRUE

“Four!” I shout excitedly as the ball speeds passed the circular flowerbed. Dad

laughs as self-appointed umpire, while Ian grows more determined to bowl me out.

The balls bounce evenly on my Dad’s home-laid front path. It is perfectly straight;

plain cement regularly used for neighbourhood matches. Next in, dwarfed by the bat,

is Christopher. Dad throws gentle underarm balls.

THE SEVEN SPINES OF JERUSALEM

The polished wood gleamed with creamy yellow-brown tones, shot through with dark

streaks. The jewellery box was the pride of the corner cabinet, sitting behind leaded

glass panels alongside other relics: a heavy pair of faded copper binoculars, a

Mauser C96, and Die Medalje voor de Anglo-Boere Oorlog on its green, red, and

white ribbon.

“Do not fiddle with these”, Pa warned.

Despite the order, the urge to admire the box was overpowering. What was inside?

Why wouldn’t it open? Whenever the house was quiet, I would steal it from the

cabinet, hide under the dining room table, and stroke the silky yellow side-panels.

The side-panels were arranged like the spines of a book, marked with Roman

numerals from I to VII. On the lid, an inscription was etched in Blackletter script: JERUSALEM

surrounded by colourful wood inlays. Did my religious Oupa long to visit

the sacred city?

Then one day, while the family was away, I fidgeted with one of the spines and felt it

shift. I slid it upward, revealing a small lock with a keyhole no larger than a match

head. Tucked into the back of the spine was a tiny iron key. It fitted perfectly. The lid

finally yielded.

The box had been a gift to my fierce, defiant Ouma. She hated the British.

“God will punish England”, she used to say. But God worked in strange ways; Britain

won the war, and Ouma was left with nightmares of dead children and disease. She

died before I had the sense to ask her about the box.

Pa told me Oupa had made it while he was a prisoner, caught at Ladysmith during

the Second Boer War. He said Oupa had carved it piece-by-piece from hard African

Olive wood using nothing but a pocketknife.

“Here’s the riff-raff—die gespuis,” Oupa said, propping himself up. His blue eyes

twinkled behind round-framed glasses, his face still soft and unlined like a baby’s.

“And here is my genant,” he beamed at his namesake, my brother, Daniël Jacobus.

The gespuis gathered around his bed. He tried to move, but his legs seemed to have

forgotten where the floor was. The frail-care room smelled of disinfectant and

antiseptic soap, masked by the slightly sour scent of ageing skin. Next to his bed lay

a worn Bible, bound in brown leather.

“How are you, Oupa?”

He smiled broadly, but the expression appeared automatically and vanished just as

quickly. In the past, Oupa would recite his homemade nursery rhymes:

Buller crossed the Tugela with trumpet and drum,

“Stand aside, Joubert — here I come!”

But Joubert on the kopje, calm as could be,

Sipped his coffee and said, “We shall see.”

Buller marched back down the hill,

Joubert stayed there very still.

“Try again tomorrow, do!”

Called old Joubert, “We’ll wait for you”.

Oupa, do you remember? Buller crossed the Tugela?

He looked confused.

I pressed further. Oupa, please tell us about the jewellery box. The one you made

during the war?

He grew agitated, tugging at his pyjama top as if it were suffocating him. A shutter

fell over his face; his eyes went dull and wet.

Nurse! Where is my breakfast? I have not had my breakfast!

An empty porridge bowl sat on a tray just outside the door. The riff-raff stepped softly

out of the room. A heavy weight filled my chest; I had caused my sweet Oupa

nothing but anguish.

Then came the day I finally peered inside. The box was lined with blue velvet, hand-

sewn into a perfect nest. At first, it seemed empty, but my fingers caught on a hard

object hidden in the lining: a rose-gold wedding band with a warm, blush-hued tone.

It was much too big for my finger. I noticed tiny writing on the inside, but a car pulled

into the driveway before I could read it. In a panic, I hid the ring and slipped the box

back into the cabinet.

Days later, I returned with Pa’s magnifying glass. The inscription read: Tot ons weer

ontmoet—Until we meet again.

Was it Ouma’s ring? Why didn’t she wear it? If Oupa wrote it before prison, it made

no sense—they hadn’t married until after the war.

Eventually, I called a family meeting. I was at that dramatic age, so I requested

everyone sit around the table: Pa, Ma, and my siblings. I fetched the box and gave a

performance a magician would envy, stretching the tension until the final reveal: the

ring.

Even Pa was caught by surprise. He took the gold band, reading the inscription

slowly as if he had just realised something immensely important.

“This is how I think it was”, Pa said, his voice trembling. “Perhaps Oupa never made

this box. Perhaps Pieter Viljoen made it.”

He fell silent for a few minutes, a deep frown carving into his forehead.

“Tannie Rita once said Ouma was heartbroken when Pieter was captured and sent to

the detention camp in Ceylon. This box must have arrived with the last Boer

prisoners in September 1903.”

He looked at the ring, then at the empty space in the cabinet.

“Pieter’s remains did not come back with it. Ouma married Oupa a few years later,

but it wasn’t a happy marriage. She was always difficult, always quarrelsome.”

The jewellery box wasn't a romantic tribute to her husband; it was a symbol of all that

was lost and of a man who never came home.

PLEDGED

Hanging on the dining room wall of the substantial double storey home in Salisbury was The Pledge.

Carefully contained in a sombre frame The Pledge declared that Jennie Violet Dann and George Elcoate Smith had signed that they would never allow a drop of alcohol to pass their lips. In Ireland.

“Yes Gran.” It just wasn’t worth engaging. We were marked for life. But not all of us. The sheep separated from the goats. Funny how most of the goats were boys….

Jennie Violet presided over her Rhodesian tribe with quiet devotion and scones. She wore her floral

dresses a little darker in pattern and a little longer. The brooches and necklaces remained but the whole ensemble was joined by an ebony walking stick.

She died two months short of her ninetieth birthday, genuinely mourned by her large, close family. The wake served tea (and cakes).

Her coffin was distressingly small.

MARCH 2026

What happens if the internet went down worldwide? This was the topic for our February assignment. A horrifying thought.

The short piece is about “Where were you when the internet went down?” and the longer piece describes the effects of a global internet failure on a particular situation. Di Young’s long story “Compassion has a Price” and Fran de Waal’s short piece “Cerumen” were chosen for publication.

COMPASSION HAS A PRICE

Mara kept one hand on the handset and one on the rifle sling. Her mouth was dry but she didn’t tell Eddie. He rubbed the grit from his eyes and leaned closer to the scope. The dust hadn’t changed shape. It was still far away but whatever it was, it was still coming.

“You’d better find your Dad”

Eddie ran down the steps of the west tower. Someone had painted over the bullet holes from the last raid but you could still see them in this light. He had been younger then but the memory of starvation after their food had been stripped by the raiders was still vivid. So many had died…his jaw tightened as he ran to the machinery shed, skidding past the water barrels.

“Dad..can we talk?”

Edrich lifted the welding helmet.

“Sure Eddie. What’s the problem?

“Mara and I have picked up a dust cloud. Still quite far away…...we can’t see any details yet. We’ve been scanning the whole area. Could be another gang looking to raid us?”.

His father was silent for a while.

“Get Mara and the other radio hams to keep scanning carefully, notify each station and maybe we send Andile up there too with binoculars and telescope? Meantime you saddle up Rebel, mobilise your team and ride out to all the remote families in the settlement to pass the word around to come to the Central Barn as soon as possible…say around 2? I will alert the Council of 12 to be there. We need to plan …we have more defences in place this time. Oh …and stop on the way at the dog kennels and warn them to have the rotties ready: no feeding till we understand more about what is going on.”

“Should we radio the other settlements? The ones a bit further away?

“Good plan Eddie. Can I leave that to you and Bongani? Last invasion was for livestock and crops but at the time they could see the machinery, guns, ammunition and resources we have stockpiled…that’s what I fear…”

*****

By late afternoon the settlement was anything but settled. Livestock had been split into small groups isolated all over the vast area by the children. Sheep and goats corralled separately in small thorny enclosures prepared after the last invasion where the settlers learnt the hard way that large herds were hard to defend, hard to move quickly and easy to spook. The beef cattle were similarly sequestered but in the forests. Cows were enclosed in small barns all over the settlement – their normal homes for daily milking and distribution. The hens were herded into their hoks.

There was a buzz in the barn. The Council of 12 sat on benches at the long wooden table. Eddie wiped the dust from his face, lathered in sweat. It was dusk.

His father stood up.

“Welcome everybody. Good of you all to come at short notice. Eddie and Mara in the radio tower on the west side have picked up a small dust cloud, moving slowly. Thank you for carrying out our livestock preservation plans so effectively. We need to discuss our options should this turn out to be a group either seeking help or intent on trouble.”

A tumble of long black hair tied loosely on the top of her head, Veda and her daughter Maya had joined the groups of older women preparing a makeshift hospital in one of barns with “hidden” water tanks, hay bales, mattresses. Lining the walls were containers of various herbs and grasses, bark and tinctures along with precious stored antiseptics, medicines and dressings.

Eddie appeared at the door.

“Hi Mum…just came by to see if you are all OK? Maya? It seems the Council is deeply divided: but all are agreed on preparations until we know more. It’s dusk now and whatever it is, is still moving slowly and too far to make out any details.”

Eddie’s palms were sweating and he was aware of nausea twisting his gut. How to get through the night.

He headed back to the tower and Mara.

As dusk fell pinpoints of candles sprang up all over the settlement. Eddie and Mara reported that the group seemed to have stopped for the night. Tiny pricks of light were visible there too.

However the Council of 12 were taking no chances: it was too easy for individuals on foot to move unnoticed to the outer fence. Volunteers had been placed at close intervals around the fence, all with small radio sets connected to the west tower lookout which remained manned.

The night passed uneventfully but at first light as the birds began their day, radios crackled into life reporting a small group approaching, all dressed in white.

The Council of 12 remained out of sight in the barn but deputed Eddie to approach the fence gate with a single radio

operator in attendance.

“Stop there!” he called through his bullhorn.

The group slowed uncertainly and the leader shrouded in white dropped to the ground. A female voice called out …

“We come in peace. Our village was attacked and the men killed. We escaped by hiding in caves. We have nothing…all was taken.” The voice broke.

“We are not afraid of work. There are 37 of us, women and small children. We have no food. We beg you help us”.

Eddie noticed the small dusty feet of a child.

The Council was divided.

“We know nothing about them at all – they could be an advance party just using our feelings of humanity to get inside. We keep the gate closed!”

“and let the children starve outside like ours did?”

“you don’t know there are children!”

“and they get in and radio our coordinates to others?”

“it’s not a big group…only 37..

“… are more organised this time. We are better prepared”

At the gate Eddie looked at the tiny damaged feet. He took the water bottle from his pack and approached the fence, pushing the bottle through to the spokesperson, pointing to the child.

A decision was made.

The gates groaned open. Nobody cheered. Above, the antennae swayed in the wind, still listening for a world that no longer answered.

CERUMEN

Cerumen. The Web Quizz: “earwax”. Guilty: wasting my time instead of working.

Next: “Who was the author of Norwegian Wood?” The Beatles? No dummy, it is a book. The screen

flickers once and goes blank. Nothing. I panic. I feel faint, dizzy. No more ChatGTP.

Sleepless nights. What if I never get the answer?

Perhaps I can ask Di...

FEBRUARY 2026

Our February topics required introspection and soul-searching: Why do we write and what are our intentions as writers? In our short topic we used a description from nature to reveal/reflect our aims as writers, and the long topic was a story which reflected those aims. Joy Herbst’s “The Sunflower” and Mel Cloete’s insightful “Mirror, Mirror” were chosen for you to enjoy:

THE SUNFLOWER

The sunflower turns its face to the sun radiating warmth and positivity.

Its bright yellow petals reflecting nature’s smile and spreading joy wherever it grows.

It is tall and strong, weathering seasons and turning toward the light, even after storms.

Cheerful fields in tight clusters represent family and togetherness in shared laughter.

When it droops its head it has others so close to rest upon.

©Joy Herbst

MIRROR MIRROR

I see so much more than most. Many look at themselves and attach a specific identity to what they see. This view can be labelled – positively or not. But all people look in me to see themselves. Few achieve the truth of their reflection. They adjust, adapt and even hide themselves with soft lighting, make up or a warped perception of themselves or reality itself. I see them fully. Truthfully. My view is not adjustable – ever.

In a little hand mirror, she’s focused on blending her base, which she has liberally applied to her early 30’s skin, and to my eye her fair complexion is already stunning: fresh and natural. I reflect her image honestly. Visage – now with an extra layer. Then she builds in the accentuation of her cheek bones and the arch of her eyebrows. She deepens and widens her eyes with her magic wand of skillfully applied colour and deep mascara. She outlines her lips and pouts them…plumping them up even more. Her image shifts from natural to sculptured; from real to photographic. Her initial frown remains on her face throughout the transformation.

Each lotion, potion, colour, brushstroke, tissue, cosmetic wand is used and then replaced in her special make-up bag. Shifting her head from side to side her eyes remain fixed on me. She critically evaluates her handiwork. A soft sigh escapes her freshly glossed lips. With a shrug she places the bag into her holdall and settles into the train’s seat awaiting her station.

I wish I could tell her she is beautiful just as she is.

***

As he swaggers past the large display windows the lighting refracts at just the right angle to allow him to glimpse his

reflection. His pace slows. At the next window, his fingers smooth his eyebrows – one to the left and one to the right. He tussles his own slightly curly light-brown hair and pointedly ignores the greyish strands at his temples. He half smiles, as if to prove to himself that he is still relevant.

I think the smile looks strained and there is no echo of it in his eyes. He looks unsettled. I wish I could reassure him. Tell him that his looks are irrelevant compared to his unique self.

Then, just as he steps forward to move across the road, he lifts his chin defiantly, stares into the far distance, squares his shoulders and picks up his pace. He pretends to be inwardly focused. He passes others on the street without a hint of acknowledgement – certainly without recognition. His steely look and long strides lead to jostling others out of his path, as if he is a bumper car let loose. An important man on a mission and no one else exists or matters. Nothing else is valued. Yet from my view, his loneliness and insecurity are fully evident.

***

She has refused to look at me since the accident. The medical staff have tried to move her past this stumbling block. She knows her surgery was extensive. The facial reconstruction was based on recent selfies from her phone, which

miraculously survived the collision. I heard the plastic surgeon say he was delighted with the results. But still, she could not face herself. She would not look at herself in me.

Although she had not caused the accident, and was herself a victim, she suffered from survivor’s guilt. An eight-year-old boy had died on impact and the boy’s mother was still in a coma. I heard her whispering to herself last night: How can I just step back into my life with my second chance and my new face? I cannot!

I can understand her reticence. Her inability to move on. Her hesitancy to allow herself the blessing of a new chance.

***

Mismatched is what I think as I listen to him as he views himself. His voice echoes softly in front me. “But I’m still so FAT,” he whispers as he looks in the full-length mirror. “I must lose another 10 kilos at least…My bum is too big – look how it bulges out at my rear.” He is staring at his non-existent bottom over his shoulder…staring into me at an

uncomfortable angle.

“Everyone can see a mile away that I’m obese. There’s nothing else for it… carrots and water for another week. I can do this. I must do this! No one can see me like this. I am so fat and ugly. I’ll wear my baggy jeans with my extra-large black tee-shirt to hide my rear. I’ll just blend into the background so no one will notice me,” he muses.

In deep contrast, I see a gaunt face with dark smudges under his lovely green eyes.

His collar bones protrude and there is no ‘behind’ at all. His baggy jeans are held up by his belt which is now four notches tighter than before. I see a youngster unable to see himself clearly at all. A young man lost in himself and adrift in society – unable to find his course. Lost. I wish I could direct his path; affirm his worth.

***

Yes, I am mirror. I am silver and exact, I am not cruel, only truthful. Ms Plath got it right. I reflect exactly what is placed in front of me. I reflect and you see what you wish to see – what you want to see – what you think you see. I am nothing but truthful to everyone. I reflect your image and you create your identity.

“…In every place we look we see our stare. Taunting our own identities.”

Elizabeth Jenkins

I wish I could let you see yourselves the way I do. The world would be so much poorer without each one of you. What you look like is not your identity. You are so much more. You are remarkable, one-of-a-kind human beings.

NOVEMBER 2025

The final 60-word topic for 2025 was to write a humorous story in dialogue with a Christmas theme. Joy Herbst’s “Father Christmas’ Direct Helpline” was chosen for you to enjoy.

The longer exercise was to write a story based on a favourite poem. Jean Wright’s moving story “Walking Away”, based on a poem by C. Day-Lewis, was chosen for publication.

FATHER CHRISTMAS’ DIRECT HELPLINE

“How can I help you?”

“Father Christmas, phew what a job it’s been to get you personally on the line. Well, before

Christmas, I ordered a packet of sexy black G-strings. I’ve lost weight you see and I thought it

would be nice to surprise my husband on Christmas Day. Helllloooooo, are you still there?”

“How can I help you?”

©Joy Herbst

WALKING AWAY

The pain of losing someone dear is traumatic enough. The pain of having to pass on the bad

news to everyone else is worse. I remember after my wife, Rachel, died at a young age of a

brain aneurism, I asked a counsellor at the hospital for advice.

She said to warn the listener of the bad news and then just tell them the details. My pain and

the transferred pain to the listener never became easier.

Even a year later I would meet someone who happily would ask

And how is Rachel these days?

I would make eye contact saying Oh you haven’t heard?

And then have to break the news to them.

And although I had advanced down the path of grief, it was always difficult to experience the

other person’s initial response.

At your reaction to your Mother’s death, I felt helpless.

You perhaps don’t remember but I still do.

At 12 years old you had had very little experience of death - only a dead bird in the garden or

a gold fish floating belly up in the pond.

I tried to break the news as carefully and kindly as possible but I am not one to use all those

synonyms which often doesn’t tell the true message correctly.

I had come home from the hospital.

Gran met me at the door and from the look on my face she knew the news was not good.

You were standing behind her with a cautious smile on your face and asked

Is Mom gonna be ok?

I held out my arms and embraced you and somewhere in the tangled mess of your hair I said

I’m sorry. Mom has died.

You looked at me wide eyed and said But she will come home, won’t she?

In a tight embrace I replied No, from now we are on our own.

You turned and ran down the passage to your bedroom and threw yourself on your bed.

Fortunately Gran stepped in and comforted you as you lay sobbing. Your despair being a

reflection of my own, but more vividly portrayed.

* * *

The decision to move to Gran’s house was made for a number of reasons. I actually couldn’t

bear to live in the old house. There were so many reminders of our happy family life there,

and I still felt a large gap. And Gran was living alone and seemed keen for the company.

You were starting high school and there was a well known school in the area with a good

sports section as well as unusual extra mural activities like horse riding, rock climbing and

rowing. You were not very confident in those teenage years and I hoped that this school

would enable you to find your niche.

And you did!

Your enthusiasm for computer science and maths were well received and your love of football

kept you fit and healthy.

I often wondered if you might become a computer fundi or a professional footballer. There

were, at the time, so many role models in both spheres.

And although I don’t think I have ever voiced my pride in your achievements, I am extremely

proud of the well-balanced man you have become. I see some of your mother’s traits in the

kindness you show to your family. Your career has flourished far beyond my wildest dreams.

And in my ‘conversations’ with your Mom, we agreed – we did a good job.

The true realization that you would fly the nest came to me in your football match for the first

team at your school.

It is eighteen years ago, almost to the day

A sunny day with the leaves just turning,

The touch-lines new-ruled – since I watched you play

Your first game of football, then, like a satellite

Wrenched from it’s orbit, go drifting away

Behind a scatter of boys. I can see

You walking away from me towards the school

With the pathos of a half fledged thing set free

Into a wilderness, the gait of one

Who finds no path where the path should be.

That hesitant figure, eddying away

Like a winged seed loosed from it’s parent stem,

Has something I never quite grasp to convey

About nature’s give-and-take - the small, the scorching

Ordeals which fire one’s irresolute clay.

I have had worse partings, but none that so

Gnaws at my mind still. Perhaps it is roughly

Saying what God alone could perfectly show –

How selfhood begins with a walking away,

And love is proved in the letting go.

THE FATE OF JABEZ DAWES

In his village Jabez Dawes was regarded as ‘an ugly piece of work’. His parents had never found it in themselves to love him and his unwitting revenge had been to become the bane of their existence. It was widely believed that his nasty, conniving nature had driven them to an early grave. They never punished Jabez’s mean-spirited antics and the villagers’ indulgence, some finding his evil escapades rather amusing, had emboldened him to become even meaner and less principled. He had never had to face the consequences of his actions – but fate had a rude awakening in store.

One day he simply went too far! With malicious intent, he sought out the little children of the villageand whispered in the ear of each: “Santa Claus does not exist!” Being an older boy, the children believed him and they were utterly devastated. Jabez’s spiteful rumour spread quickly throughout the village and he compounded his cruelty by mocking any child who dared show a glimmer of hope that he or she might ever receive a gift from Santa Claus again.

The sad disillusionment of the children began to affect their parents and this had a ripple effect on the whole community. They began to lose their festive cheer and the planned village Christmas celebrations began to unravel. There seemed to be no point.

Jabez wriggled with glee at the villagers’ loss of Christmas spirit, but after a while even he began to feel concern and a sense of loss for the most wonderful time of the year. Could those pangs have be remorse? Could he have been redeemed somehow? Fate was to give him one last chance.

After a while the villagers began to notice individuals in their community who seemed to embody the very spirit of Christmas as they thought of it: kindness, generosity and respect for tradition, particularly of goodwill to all mankind. “Santa Claus is more than just a presence or make-believe!” they told each other and the realisation snapped them out of their lethargy.

The village Christmas tree, a great fir from the forest, was delivered, decorated and illuminated to great fanfare. The carolers began to rehearse, the thrill of their voices singing the old Christmas favourites delighting the village, and preparations for the traditional Christmas Eve market began in earnest.

Jabez’s loss of influence over the villagers enraged him and he renewed his efforts to destroy their high spirits by jeering at them publicly as they went about their business for considering Santa Claus to be anything other than a figment of their imaginations.

“Idiots! Santa Claus doesn’t exist!” he loudly declaimed. “How could I possibly get away with such bad behaviour if he did?”

He was home alone one evening a night or two later, smugly enjoying his recollection of the negative effects his mockery was having on the villagers. Suddenly he heard the jingle of sleigh bells. Thenhooves clattering and a large thump on the roof. In horror, he raced to bar the doors, but…. Too late! Santa Claus had already come down the chimney… and he did not look pleased!

“Jabez! How dare you claim that I do not exist?” he thundered.

In that moment Jabez could have apologised, shown remorse, changed his ways and been redeemed. But, in his arrogance, he made the wrong choice - and all was lost.

“It wasn’t me!” he whined, cravenly.

Then, sensing Santa’s great presence and his disbelief, Jabez tried defiance and aggression. They had worked for him before, many times!

“SANTA CLAUS, YOU DO NOT EXIST!” he shouted at the top of his voice.

Santa Claus seemed to swell before his eyes. “How dare you mock me?” he challenged, his usually merry blue eyes as cold as ice. “I exist on many planes!” he continued, his voice shivering the timbers of Jabez’s house. “I am every child’s hopes and dreams and a symbol of the spirit of giving, love and goodwill to the world.”

“I… I… I…” stammered Jabez.

“Jabez Dawes, it is not I but you who does not exist!” continued Santa, as though Jabez had not tried to speak. In a flash Jabez was gone and in his place was an inanimate, extremely ugly-faced Jack-in-the Box toy, which Santa at once packed into his bag and took away with him.

When the village became aware that Jabez was missing, they searched for him diligently, but no trace of the public menace could be found. The villagers shamelessly applauded this news and took a celebratory eggnog together. Then, they hung up the children’s stockings in anticipation, it being Christmas Eve, and went thankfully to their beds.

It was rumoured the following year that reindeer had licked the face off a very familiar-looking Jack-in-the Box in Santa’s workshop during the elves’ rest period. It gave the villagers their first inkling of what Jabez Dawes’ fate might have been.

Hohoho and a Merry Christmas to all!

©Jennifer Smith (Inspired by “The Boy Who Laughed at Santa Claus” by Ogden Nash.

OCTOBER 2025

FEEDBACK FROM PREVIOUS EVENTS

In this high-speed world of technology, messages fly swiftly and carelessly between people, organisations and countries, often with little thought or preparation. In October we revisited the mental benefits of the quiet and contemplative art of letter writing. Our task was to write an 800-1000 word letter to our younger selves as well as writing the dialogue for a 60-word conversation with our older selves – ten years hence. The topic was thought provoking and helped us learn more about evoking emotion, describing relationships and writing through experiences of trauma or joy. Fran de Waal’s “Quieting the Sirens” and Jean Wright’s “Vegetable or Mineral” were chosen for you to read.

QUIETING THE SIRENS

34 Groenvlei Rd

Sedgefield

20 October 2025

My dearest Frannie,

These days letters are old-fashioned but I’ve always preferred letters because they make you slow down. You can’t rush your thoughts when you have to give them shape; when you want to make every word convey your exact thought.

So I’m writing this one slowly, because it’s about something that deserves care.

Today is your birthday. I wish I could sit beside you now, 60 years later, on that narrow hostel bed with the pale blue blanket and the open books scattered around you. You’re trying to cram for matric, but your thoughts are miles away, tangled up in the sound of that siren still echoing down the street.

I remember it so clearly – that long, rising wail, high and low pitches, wee-ooo wee-ooo.

On that day that sound pierced a deep memory, buried away for six years. You didn’t understand why you were crying so hard, why the tears wouldn’t stop, why it felt like the world had broken open again. But I know now. You weren’t just hearing an ambulance – you were hearing the day everything changed.

You were twelve. You were sitting in the back seat of the new Ford Fairlane with it’s chocolate brown bottom and white top, Pappa’s pride and joy. Mom nagged Pappa for days to give her a chance to drive the Ford. You were half-asleep, the Karoo sun blinking through the window. The road to Beaufort West was long and tedious. You trusted the world then. You trusted Mom at the wheel, Pappa’s soft humming, the endless road stretching ahead.

And then, in an instant, that trust shattered. The car swerved, the truck appeared from the opposite lane, and your life split into a before and after. Pappa’s lifeless body dragged onto the tar road, his leg twisted. Pappa’s silence became the silence that followed you home – a silence Mother wrapped herself in, one she expected you to wear too.

Just move on, she said. But how does a child move on from something she’s never allowed to name?

I know you tried to get her attention, Frannie. You became restless, rebellious – wild, they called you. In truth, you were trying to make the noise outside match the noise inside. But instead of hearing, she placed you in a school hostel, far away from home.

You needed someone to say, it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t even your mother’s fault. It was a tragedy – and it broke you both in ways you couldn’t talk about. I wish I could have been there then – not as the silent adult in the room, but as the

mother you needed. I would have said, crouching beside you, breathe, Frannie, you are safe.

I would have held your trembling hands and told you it was okay to cry. I would have helped you find words for the fear, the anger, the terrible loneliness. I would have told you that Mom wasn’t cruel – she was drowning too, in guilt and grief she couldn’t face. Her silence wasn’t strength; it was a wound.

Shakespeare once wrote that grief fills the room of the absent one – an unwelcome guest.

When the siren passed that day outside your hostel window, your heart finally remembered what your mind had tried to bury. That sound gave your grief a voice – and though it hurt, it also began to heal you. Grief that’s felt can finally breathe.

So, my dear Frannie, if I could speak into that moment – the one where you sobbed until your body ached – I would say: Don’t be afraid of the crying. It is your heart finding its way home. Let every tear fall. In them is the love you lost, and the love that still waits for you.

Today, I live with a gentler understanding. I know now that healing doesn’t come from forgetting or pretending, but from turning toward the pain and saying, I see you. I survived you. And I am still here.

You are brave, Frannie — braver than you ever knew.

With love and tenderness,

My older self

VEGETABLE OR MINERAL?

None of my dearly beloveds want to put my Living Will into force.

I lie recumbent, transforming into a vegetable.

Decisions ! I hope I get to choose

A Tomato? No greens for me

A Carrot? Sylph-like figure at last

An Onion? Peeling off layers as I go (where?)

A Pumpkin! Yes, Round and happy to become a delicious fritter.

SEPTEMBER 2025

FEEDBACK FROM PREVIOUS EVENTS

Short Stories: Our judge, U3A’s Dr Amanda Louw, did us proud in evaluating the short stories submitted by six of our members. Thank you, Amanda, for your valuable insights and constructive comments. Amanda suggested that next year we submit our stories to a panel of judges, rather than just one. To give us a flavour of what might happen, she introduced us to the other “member” of her panel - CoPilot!. This platform critiqued each of our stories and gave us a new perspective on how AI could be used very effectively. Luckily, Amanda’s critiques and those of CoPilot dovetailed almost exactly and each provided a comprehensive assessment of our efforts. We were greatly honoured to have Amanda spend so much of her time with us and with our stories.

September and a touch of Shakespeare: Our September topic was “Shakespeare Reimagined”. We selected famous Shakespearean quotes and, using a context different from the original, created our own stories around it. Fran de Waal’s brilliant long story “Two Gentlemen of Saxonwold”, together with two shorter stories – Mel Cloete’s THE MERCHANT OF SAXONWOLD

A satirical tragicomedy in Five Acts, inspired by William Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice, but set in the Rainbow Nation’s Political Circus.

Dramatis Personae:

Shylock, aka Ajay Gupta: The cunning businessman from Saxonwold, lending money, bribing and blackmailing government officials in return for a “pound of flesh” - in the form of mining contracts and state capture commissions.

Bassanio, aka Juju Malema: The fiery young suitor from the EFF, determined to antagonize the white electorate with jargon, calling them white monopoly capitalists, and wooing the poor black majority with promises of land expropriation without compensation, but mostly to feather his own nest.

Antonio, aka Jacob Zuma: the constantly broke President, subservient to Ajay, from whom he repeatedly borrows papgeld to support his 22 (or more?) children.

Portia, aka Lindiwe Sizulu: The princess of the ANC, living in luxury in Constantia villa, testing suitors with riddles about the Constitution, colonialism and mentally colonized black judges.

Nerissa, aka Mmusi Maimane: Portia’s (Lindiwe’s) loyal sidekick, formerly of the DA but now wandering the political wilderness, seeking partners for his hallucinatory dream to build a unified South Africa.

Jessica, aka Patricia de Lille: Ajay’s rebellious daughter, who elopes with a Democratic Alliance intern and steals the family jewels to start another political party, this time for GOOD. The Duke of Pretoria: A bumbling judge, representing the High Court, who nods along but ultimately lets the clever lawyers twist the law like a koeksister.

Supporting Cast: Assorted tenders, load-shedding ghosts, and a chorus of Twitter trolls chanting “RET” and “State Capture”.

Act I: The Loan of Doom

In the impressive sandstone Union Building, President Jacob Zuma sits melancholic behind his impressive mahogany desk. His Nkandla homestead is crumbling, his fire pool is cracking, and his main financial sponsor, Schabir Shaik, is in prison for corruption and fraud. His trusted cabinet ministers all live under a cloud of bribery scandals.

Enter Juju, clad in a red beret, his shiny black Gucci shoes sticking out from under his overalls, begging for a loan.

Juju: O honourable President, please lend me three billion rands to court the fair Lindiwe. With her White Monopoly Capital, my VBS bank looting share will multiply, allowing me to nationalise the mines and build RDP houses with swimming pools.

Jacob Zuma: Alas, my coffers are empty, drained by state capture inquiries. But fear not, I’m still the President and will get arms deal kickbacks. I’ll take a loan from Ajay Gupta, that wily fox from

Sexworld, I mean Saxonwold. He is angry about the damaging news leaks regarding him and his band of brothers, but business is business.

Juju: Shap shap! Dala what you must.

Jacob Zuma arrives at Ajay Gupta’s sprawling compound with three black BMWs. Nuclear deal blueprints and maps of diamond, gold and coal mines surround his desk.

Ajay Gupta: Ah, good morning Mr President, how are you today?

Jacob Zuma: Heh heh heh, Mfowethu, my friend. A man with 22 children, or is it 23?, can never rest his head. I’m not an idle man in that respect. Four wives to keep happy and some on the side. But I’m not here to talk papgeld.

Ajay shakes with laughter. The man with The Spear! The painting does not do you justice, Mr President. Atul giggles in the background.

Jacob: Ahem, but that’s not why I’m here this morning, Ajay!

Ajay rubs his index finger against his thumb. The rings on his fingers reflect in the early morning sun.

Ajay: I believe you’re here to tell me we’ve got the Mpumalanga coal mine contract? My trucks are standing idle. Time is money, hey.

Jacob pressed his glasses up with his middle finger: Eish, I’m not here to talk about contracts. I’m asking for a loan for Juju. He wants to pursue Lindiwe. He said he needs [reading from a note] – now listen carefully – seven hundred and sixty nine, eight hundred and…seven hundred and…, seven hundred and sixty nine thousand, eight hundred and twenty, ahem, and seventy. Huh? No, twenty nine thirty six thousand seven. Let me think…

Ajay: Lend to Juju? My friend is eating my brain with your constant borrowing! Fine. Will three billion rands, do? No interest – but if you default, I claim a pound of your flesh, cut from your Nguni’s at Nkandla and your playboy son, Duduzane, must become my whipping boy.

Jacob sighs: Hawu, it’s just politics.

Ajay jets off to Constantia, leaving Jacob to ponder his cattle and bickering wives.

Act II: The Caskets of Decolonisation

At Lindiwe Sizulu’s opulent estate, suitors line up to choose from three caskets: gold (labelled: Votes for Bribes), silver (Votes for Cadre Deployment), and lead (Vote for Decolonised Constitution).

Lindiwe: Choose wisely, suitors. My father, Walter Sizulu, will haunt your dreams with expropriation

without compensation. But remember: All that glitters is not coalition gold.

First Suitor, a pompous IFP prince, picks gold. Inside? A mirror showing his own irrelevance: Away with you!

Second, an ActionSA pretender, picks silver. Inside? A note: Fool’s gold for fool’s promises. Exit stage left.

Juju chooses lead. Inside? Lindiwe’s portrait and a new South African Constitution with a law system, compelling all South Africans to move to homelands and live on communal land: Juju, you win my hand – and my votes!

They wed in a lavish ceremony, with Mmusi Maimane eloping with a minor character from Build One SA.

Meanwhile, Patricia de Lille steals Jacob’s uMkhonto spear, the DA’s party manifesto, and runs off with a DA intern to start her third political party, this time for GOOD.

Act III: The Coal Trucks Crash (Load-Shedding Edition)

Word arrives: Cadre deployment, EXXCOM blackouts, State Capture deals and the grounding of SAA flights, turn the tide against Jacob. He is kicked out as President, loses his bribe support and can’t repay his loans.

Ajay demands his pound of flesh.

Ajay Gupta: The bond! The bond! No mercy for the man who undermined my commissions and did not protect me from the news hounds. I’ll carve it from his integrity – if any remains.

Ajay is hauled before the Duke of Pretoria. Juju returns, offering double the money from Lindiwe’s dowry. Ajay refuses: If every rand could buy justice, where would my revenge be?

Act IV: The Trial of the Century (Again)

In the High Court, disguised as a hotshot lawyer, with a wig that resembles Table Mountain mist, Lindiwe enters the stand.

Lawyer Lindiwe: The quality of mercy is not strained – it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven. But in South Africa, mercy is load-shedding Stage 6. Therefore, Ajay, you may have your pound of flesh, but not one drop of blood. For the bond says nought of plasma or platelets!

Ajay stammers: But... but...what about his cows?

Lawyer Lindiwe: Furthermore, alien laws apply – you’re not Zulu royalty here. Half your wealth to Jacob, half to the state. Convert to renewal, or face the NPA!

The Duke of Pretoria: Case dismissed!

Ajay slinks away, muttering about Dubai and hoping that his Learjet is not impounded. Jacob Zuma is saved, but insists “I have done nothing wrong!”, although admitting his Russian connections and hand in the defunct nuclear plant contracts.

Act V: All’s Well That Ends in Coalition

Back in Pretoria, celebrations ensue. Juju gifts the hotshot lawyer a ring. She reveals her disguise. Comic misunderstandings follow – accusations of infidelity with opposition parties.

Ajay, broke and bitter, slips out the back door where his private Lear Jet is waiting. Off to Dubai, he cries, his brothers obediently in tow.

The curtain falls as the chorus chants: In the Rainbow Nation, corruption is a myth, justice a jest, and the only pound of flesh is the taxpayer’s wallet. Heh heh heh.

PANDEMIC

We survived Vars, which inexplicably targeted those in peak condition. Now Hemoglid was on the rampage, thickening our blood despite blood thinners.

Everyone was being tested. Fearfully I waited in the queue.

, the nurse pricked the blond man’s finger. The tiny tell-tale blob released his shoulders and unclenched his jaw.

Shuffling forward I inwardly begged: If you prick me, will I not bleed?

TALK SHOW COMBAT

War and lechery confound all.

You poncy Democrat. Where did that get you? WATCH me - war and lechery plus PROFIT make my followers LOVE me. They wanna be like me! I decide to grab something and I go for it. You lie and steal from the poor: you are without a moral compass, Sir!

But the people love me….

AUGUST 2025

August Love Stories: With spring on its way, we tried our hands at the difficult topic of Romance.

Two stories were chosen for publication in this Newsletter – Jean Wright’s short piece entitled “Hair Raising” and Di Young’s suspenseful “Ambushed”.

HAIR RAISING

Oh your hair looks fabulous – you have a different hairdresser?

Yes, I booked with that new guy at The Hair Loft

He’s done a great job. You look about 10 years younger. What’s he like?

Pretty dishy.

No, you’re crazy. He’s gay!

You think so?

Of course. I saw him with another guy at that Burger Place last week.

That was his younger brother - and he sure didn’t feel gay when he kissed me on our Valentine’s date last night.

©Jean Wright

AMBUSHED

Lucy sprawled on the green carpet, pencil in hand. She meticulously hatched her drawing. Sigh. She could hear the

arrival of her brother and his noisy, muddy, smelly friends who shouted in action bubbles…and overwhelmed. Used to being ignored she was surprised when Jacob detached himself from the group and wandered over. He ruffled her curls.

“Hi Sprog. That’s pretty good.” She flushed as he turned and rejoined the maleness: she was so used to being ignored by her family that she wasn’t sure how to react. Do nothing, she decided.

*****

Home from school, Lucy sat in her mother’s chair reading. Rain slid down the windows and hammered on the roof. The front door burst open – her brother and two of his posse, hair stuck to student heads lurched in. She fetched a towel. Jacob rubbed his head, thick hair.

“On a day like this I want to be snug on a bed with my book and my girl” he said.

And Lucy fell in love, deeply, irrevocably.

*****

She waited on the station steps, her suitcase beside her. As usual her brother was late.

A car drew up and a man climbed out.

“Jacob?“

Lucy was aware of her face flushing and her heart rate rising. Her newly acquired confidence vanished. She was back to being little sister, ignored by all. But there was Jacob!

“Your lazy brother had to work and he asked me to collect you. Waiting long?”

She took a slow deep breath.

“Not too long….and Rob is always late!” she managed.

“How long are you home for?”

“Just two weeks – I took a vac job so have to go back.”

“Well – news flash. I am working up there and plan to drive. Shall I give you a lift?”

Lucy was quiet….and then

“Yes, yes please. That would be great. I’ll share petrol, of course. Let me know where and when you plan to leave? And thank you!”

For two weeks Lucy could not think of anything else. All that time with Jacob. She planned what she would wear. Was it possible in this universe that at last he had noticed her, how she felt about him? What would she find to say….

Departure day arrived. Lucy packed early -she wouldn’t keep him waiting. She had dressed carefully, hair brushed and gleaming. She had a small bag with some snacks for the trip.

The car arrived and Jacob climbed out.

“Hi Lucy – all ready I see. Well done.”

He walked round the car and opened the back door.

“It’s good to have you with us. Let me introduce you to Gill, my girlfriend. She is joining us. Gill, this is Lucy, Rob’s little sister. I have known her for years! Like family.” He grinned.

Gill was a blond poster girl complete with smiley blue eyes. She greeted Lucy with warmth.

“Hop in. It’s good to have you with us.”

Lucy managed a smile and murmured something inaudible. With leaden heart she climbed into the car, reduced to

monosyllables.

*****

Saturday. It was raining. The buzzer went at the door of Lucy’s digs. She opened the door to a smiling

Jacob.

“Jacob! Wow this is a surprise…you are the LAST person I expected to see! Come in but I warn you I

only have about half an hour……would you like coffee? I make a mean cup. What brings you here out of the blue?

“It’s weird but when it rains like this I always think of home…and then I thought of you.. and Rob, mates, your folks and those days and suddenly I wanted to see you!”

“Well, I am suitably honoured but I am meeting Simon in about an hour…. it’s good to see you.”

“Who’s Simon?”

“He’s a guy I met here. We’ve been going out for..um.. about a year now. He’s a great guy and we enjoy much of the same stuff together. He’s in his last year engineering. We will graduate together but he is older than me…the folks like him too…which helps!” she smiled easily.

Jacob lowered himself onto the bar stool at the small counter. Lucy sat opposite, both nursing coffee cups.

“Mmmm. This is good…and grinding your own beans too. Must be a family thing cos Rob does too!”

They settled into a comfortable exchange of news and memories – swopping stories about friends from home, where they were, who was working, who had left the country.

“Ah…. Jacob… this has been lovely. We mustn’t leave it so long….”

“I tell you what…would you have dinner with me tonight? We have hardly touched the surface. I’ve really enjoyed this catch-up. We could go to that Italian place….?”

Lucy busied herself putting coffee cups in the sink, her back to Jacob. She was stirred up by this unexpected meeting. Did she really want to go there again? She really liked Simon, valued him even.

Would he mind if she said she wanted to meet up with an old friend of her brother….would she mind?! But it had been so good….so comfortable. She turned round.

“I have enjoyed this too …I would love to join you for dinner tonight. But only because I love that Italian food….”

It was still raining when Jacob buzzed at the door but the restaurant was warm, busy with the quiet buzz of customers for whom it was a regular venue. The aroma of garlic, herbs, and the salami hanging over the counter settled Lucy’s slight apprehension as they were guided to a table by the owner. Red wine was poured into glasses, bottle left on the table after they ordered.

“You clearly come here often!” Lucy laughed.

The meal was everything she expected but what was unexpected was what was happening in her heart. Jacob reached across the table and with long fingers he lifted the curls on her cheek and gently stroked her face.

“You have become a beautiful and special woman, Lucy. I can’t believe I let you slip through my fingers.

Simon is a lucky man. Thank you for this evening….is there any chance you would be willing to do it again sometime?”

Lucy looked down to hide the dismaying and familiar surge of emotion Jacob’s touch had triggered. I was so over him….after all these years…and Simon? Disastrous!

They drove back to her digs in silence.

“I’ll just see you to the door” Jacob helped her from the car.

As she fumbled with her keys Jacob turned her towards him and holding her face between his hands, kissed her

tenderly, slowly, deeply.

JULY 2025

HAGIA SOPHIA AND THE AGE-OLD DEBATE

The tram came to a sudden halt in the Sultanahmet area, depositing us in the heart of Istanbul.

Barely awake and still heavy with fatigue, the metallic scent of the tram clinging to our clothes, my companions and I staggered toward Sultan Ahmet Square. We had landed at Istanbul airport two days earlier and were still recovering from the hectic schedule we’d set for ourselves.

We followed the cobblestone paths uphill, passing small kiosks selling roasted chestnuts and sesame ring bread. As we ascended, the great dome of the Hagia Sophia gradually emerged from behind trees and low stone walls, commanding our attention. All tiredness vanished, replaced by wonder and excitement – a sight so magnificent that no picture could convey its immensity.

A few steps later, both the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque, with its nine domes, appeared in their full glory, facing each other across the square. A phrase from an article sprang to mind: one of the most “iconic architectural confrontations in the world.”

An equally astounding scene awaited us as we entered the lawn area between the two structures: a vast, shimmering square of hundreds of thousands of live tulips. The beauty was a shock to the system. The display, about a third the size of a rugby field, featured precisely 565,000 tulips in various colours, arranged to represent a traditional Turkish carpet motif.

We had agreed to meet our guide, Ali Bey – a bald, ponytailed, irreligious man – at the Hagia Sophia’s entrance. He arrived with entrance tickets and a history lesson: “To truly understand Turkey, you must delve into the cultural, religious, and political history embodied by these two magnificent structures. It all ties back to Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, the founding father and first president of modern Turkey.”

A Historical Lens

Atatürk’s ambition was to create a strongly secular, Western-oriented state. He made significant constitutional changes, developed a Latin-based Turkish alphabet, built thousands of schools, and raised the literacy rate from 9% to 33% within a decade.

He also granted women equal political and voting rights and encouraged them to abandon head coverings and the hijab, which many did. His guiding principle was to keep the government free from religious influence and to bridge the religious and cultural divide by establishing a secular state.

A period of stability and growth followed until President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan introduced changes that diverged from Atatürk’s vision. While not completely dismantling Atatürk’s legacy – many institutions still reflect secular roots – Erdoğan redefined modern Turkish identity through a religious and conservative lens.

The Hagia Sophia became a political hot potato, passed from one ruler to the next. Originally built as an Orthodox temple, it was converted into a mosque by the Ottomans, then into a museum by Atatürk, and back into a mosque by Erdoğan’s government.

Inside the Hagia Sophia

With that, we turned to face the 1,488-year-old structure, its gigantic dome floating above pink sandstone walls like a hooped skirt. The bronze door, dating back to the 2nd century BC, featured monograms and geometric patterns in relief. Inside, the atmosphere was bleak and dimly lit, making it hard to appreciate the intricate patterns of the marble floor, designed to resemble sea waves.

Barriers blocked the front area off, obscuring the wall drawings, and the second-floor balcony – home to many Orthodox religious figures and mosaic artworks. Most of the Byzantine mosaics were damaged, the walls were flaking, and drapes covered the renowned mosaic of the Virgin and Child in the apse. Huge banners in Arabic script hung above the raised platform.

My disappointment in the Hagia Sophia was a stab in the heart. Instead of the sacred, quiet space I had imagined, the atmosphere was gloomy, disrespectful, and sad – a sadness all my own, echoing Orhan Pamuk’s lament for the loss of old Istanbul.

The Blue Mosque’s Majesty

Before passing through the stone archway to the Blue Mosque, Ali reminded us to cover our heads and shoulders and remove our shoes. I couldn’t help but inspect the array of shoes left on the steps.

Inside, the central dome dominated, soaring high and flanked by semi-domes in perfect geometric harmony. Thousands of Iznik tiles give the mosque its name, colour, primarily in shades of blue, turquoise, and white, with delicate floral and arabesque patterns. Stained glass windows filtered in colourful light, creating an almost eerie glow. Visitors sat of knelt on the floor, carpeted in rich red.

Reflections

Silence followed our little group as we filed back to the tram station. As we walked, I couldn’t help but reflect on the weight of history these landmarks carry – centuries of religious conflicts, triumphs, and losses, all encapsulated in these magnificent structures.

BEAUTIFUL HEARTS

“If you had led a bloody heart we would have won the bloody game!!!” Dad shouted.

“If you had bid properly we would have been in the right contract! When did you learn to play bridge? With the woolly mammoths???” Mum shouted back.

Caught in the crossfire, Gary and Joanne hid behind their cards as best they could while outside the hyenas cackled nervously and the lions crept away into the darkness.

The volume increased. “How dare you!!! I am a Brigadier General. I didn’t fight two wars just to listen to your woman’s fiddle faddle. You shouldn’t play bridge – you should stay in the kitchen!!!”

There was a loud knock on the rondavel door. Gary leapt to open it. A stern looking Etosha National Park official stood outside. “Sir. Kindly keep it down. It’s after 9pm and there should be NO NOISE.” He indicated the conspicuous notice on the rondavel wall.

“Yes sir, sorry sir, goodnight sir.” Gary closed the door quietly.

He turned to Mum and Dad. “Now see what you’ve done. Bedtime – and no more arguing.” The four of them slunk off to bed – each secretly proud of creating a disturbance at their ages.

It was the Millenium, and having weathered Y2K, Gary and Joanne had thought it would be a treat to take Gary’s widowed Dad and Joanne’s widowed Mum to Namibia for a holiday. Perhaps, far from their homes in Cape Town, under the desert stars, a romance might bloom between the old folk. Joanne was already mentally planning a small but tasteful wedding for them at a small but tasteful wine farm. But things didn’t seem hopeful.

At 3am Gary was woken by a strange noise. It sounded like a lion in distress, or an amorous warthog, perhaps. It was coming from the Brigadier’s rondavel. Armed with a jaffle iron, Gary tiptoed gingerly across the gravel to his father’s hut.

The Brigadier was holding his head in agony, sweating profusely and scratching at his neck. “Call a doctor – I’ve been bitten” he croaked.

Bitten by what? Gary grabbed his father’s phone and called the camp’s medical service. A few minutes later a tall black Herero woman appeared at the door.

“I am Dr Grace. What is the trouble Mkhulu? Let’s have a look” she said to Dad.

Dad looked at her apprehensively – he had never been looked at by a black doctor before. But his head hurt so much that he allowed her to inspect him.

“Ah. Here is your problem Mkhulu. A little tick bite on your neck. You probably have tickbite fever. I will give you some muti for it, but I suggest you go home to Cape Town so you can be tested properly. You are old, Mkhulu. You must be careful.” She patted him on the shoulder and stood up to go and fetch the tetracyclines that were needed. Gary thanked her profusely. “Dr Grace, if ever you are in Cape Town, you must come and see us. We would be honoured to have you to stay.”

***

Several months later, the phone rang. “Helloooo!!! Mr Gary? Dr Grace from Namibia! We are coming to Cape Town on Friday! I need to shoot my son. Can we come and stay?”

Shoot her son??? What??? “Y.y.yes sure!” said Gary bravely.

On Friday, a large black limousine drew up outside Gary and Joanna’s house. Out stepped Dr Grace in full Herero regalia – an exquisite long dress and the traditional horned headgear. Behind her was a small boy of about 10 and an enormous, powerfully built man.

“Hello dear Gary and Joanna. It is very good of you to accommodate us. This is my son, Vekuii. He is the one that I want to shoot. And this is my bodyguard, Mr Rokoro,” said Dr Grace.

“You’ve got a bodyguard? Why is that?” stammered Gary.

“Because I am the Royal Princess of the Hereros,” said Dr Grace.

After the three had unpacked, Dr Grace asked Gary “Now where is the best place to

shoot my son?”

“I-I-I don’t know what you mean?”

“I mean where can I get a very nicer one of this?” Dr Grace tugged at Gary’s denim jacket. “And trousers too.”

“Oh you mean you want to get Vekuii a SUIT!” Gary nearly fainted with relief.

After that, Gary, Joanna, Princess Grace and her entourage had the best of times. They trawled the most exclusive “shoot” shops in town, ate fish and chips at Hout Bay and licked ice-creams everywhere. In the raw post-apartheid era, heads turned as Gary walked down the beaches with a beautiful black woman on his arm.

“Ahhhh”, sighed Princess Grace as she and her son stepped into the limo at the end of their stay. “Karee nawa – thank you so much! You have beautiful hearts.”

And then they were gone.

JUNE 2025

In June we examined the story arc – how good stories progress using five elements: exposition, rising action, climax, falling action and resolution. The short pieces “A Sheep in Wolf’s Clothing”, by Jean Wright and Jennifer Smith’s “Slow Day at Work” were chosen for publication this month, as well as Fran de Waal’s “Elegy for an Unremarkable Man” and Jeannie Taljard’s “The Boy who Loved Trains”.

A SHEEP IN WOLF’S CLOTHING

(Loudly) You want to go to the market dressed as what?????

(Soft whisper) A wolf

What on earth are you talking about?

My friend Dylan identifies as a chicken but he used to identify as a wolf so he said I could use

his outfit

I just don’t get this whole thing. For goodness sake you are a boy - B-O-Y

I know but I better just be a wolf ‘cos I promised Dylan.

After a warm day at the market with many curious stares

So?

I don’t think I want to be a wolf, it’s too hot.

SLOW DAY AT WORK

Sally was at Gatwick Airport, on her way to check-in.

As she passed a security officer, his dog reacted, began to follow her and sniff at her suitcase. She began to wonder anxiously whether someone had planted contraband in her luggage.

Security pulled her aside and demanded she open up. As she did, they all became aware of the delicious smell of biltong emanating from her suitcase, residual, as their search demonstrated.

Sally was allowed to leave.

As she walked away she overheard the handler address the sniffer dog sternly:

“That was NOT funny, Maeve!” Maeve’s eyes smiled back at him mischievously.

ELEGY FOR AN UNREMARKABLE MAN

For many months, I refused to call my new father-in-law Pa, as tradition dictates. I sensed his disappointment, but Ben Fourie was a quiet, unremarkable man who never demanded attention.

Conversations with him were difficult –polite, brief, and seldom satisfying.

By day, he worked behind the pesticide counter at the local Co-op, leaving at seven and returning

home promptly at five.

My own father had died when I was twelve. I remembered the red-blond hairs on his arms, his voice as he sang at the piano, the scent of his pipe, his fondness for reading and political debate. Calling Ben Pa felt like a betrayal.

I devised ways to avoid addressing him directly. Martie, my mother-in-law – resolute and kind-hearted – often answered for him. Once, I asked how he liked his eggs.

Ask Ma, Ben replied.

He likes them soft, Martie said.

Later, I joked with my husband, David. Your father never shares an opinion. How did Martie know?

Maybe during some intimate moment, he whispered: Soft. I like my eggs soft.

A historic event occurred when the municipality announced they’d build an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Martie scoffed, why spend all that money on a swimming pool? No one here can swim.

One evening, while I was putting our toddler to bed, the phone rang. It was Martie, her voice strained and trembling.

For the past few weeks, Pa comes home later and later—sometimes after ten. Always the same excuse: stocktaking, paperwork. Do you think... do you think he’s having an affair?

Surprised and faintly amused, I thought: Dear prosaic Ben? An affair? Where – under the poison counter?

David was startled. The next day we drove to the small Free State town.

That evening, after supper, Ben quietly took his briefcase and muttered something about work.

Martie caught my eye and motioned for us to follow.

David and I trailed him like amateur sleuths. The Co-op was just a few blocks away, but Ben took a different route, circling the rugby field behind the high school. We kept our distance, puzzled.

Then he stopped at the gate of the newly completed swimming pool. A high diving board loomed over water, tinged pink by the setting sun. He unlocked the gate, undressed quickly. I looked away, embarrassed, but David nudged me.

There Ben stood, pale and slender in a red Speedo, his skin blue-white in the fading light.

He climbed onto a starting block. Knees bent, arms extended. With a powerful push, he dived in, clean and elegant. He surfaced in a cascade of water, moving with fluid grace, stroke after stroke, lap after lap, flipping turns like he’d been born in water.

We watched, transfixed. At last, he climbed out of the pool, the darkness settling gently around him.

Let’s go, David whispered. We walked home in silence.

I saw something in Dad I’ve never seen before, David said. He became someone else. He became...

himself.

We agreed to keep it to ourselves. Martie needed to see it with her own eyes.

The next evening, just before sunset, we invited her for a walk. We reached the pool in time to see Ben, poised on the block, diving in streamlined, effortless, perfect.

Martie stepped forward, then stopped dead. She brought her hand to her mouth.

I didn’t know he could swim, she whispered. Oh, Ben. I’m so sorry.

That was the moment Ben Fourie became Pa. I ran to him, embraced him, water still dripping from

his body.

Pa, I said, we’re so proud of you.

The next day, Martie bought him swimming goggles and a modest blue trunk suit to cover up his

‘essentials’.

In time, Ben became a local celebrity. He swam against the high school champion and won.

Swimmers from neighbouring towns arrived to challenge the ou oom. On Saturdays, villagers gathered with picnic baskets to watch the races.

The boys teased him. Oom Ben, dive from the board! They chanted, Oom Ben! Oom Ben!

But he always refused.

It was a Friday. Ben was in a rush to get home, preparing for a big swim against the Viljoenskroon champion.

As he locked away a dark green container labelled Paraquat Dichloride Solution – EXTREMELY DANGEROUS – the screw top slipped. Poison splashed over his hands and shirt.

In the bathroom, he scrubbed desperately. His skin turned an angry red. His nose bled. It felt like boiling water was pouring down his throat. His heart pounded in panic.

Then he collapsed. The last thing he saw was the doorman’s silhouette hovering over him.

In hospital, he remained in a coma for four days. Acute respiratory distress, the doctors said.

On the fifth day, barely conscious, he stirred. Around midnight, during my shift by his bedside, his eyes flew open. He fixed me with a feverish gaze.

Take me to the swimming pool, he rasped, plucking the dialysis port from his arm. Please, there is something I need to do.

David was at the door. He stepped forward, wrapped his father’s arm around his shoulder.

Help me, please. There is something I need to do.

I grabbed a sheet and draped it over Ben’s fragile frame.

At the pool, with our arms supporting him, he moved with quiet urgency toward the diving platform.

Slowly, painfully, David helped him up the stairs. At the top, Ben straightened. He inched forward, the board swaying beneath him.

He stood for a long moment, silhouetted in moonlight – a translucent spirit, suspended between worlds.

Then he bounced once... and leapt. His gown flared around him like wings.

Ben did not surface. When David pulled him from the water, he gave a single, shuddering sigh – and was gone.

Later, I remembered the legend of the Pool of Bethesda: when an angel stirred the waters, the first to enter would be healed, sanctified.

Ben had found his baptism.

THE BOY WHO LOVED TRAINS

Adolf Gustav Schmidt, eleven years old, small for his age. Born before the second World War but bearing the mighty consequences thereof on his frail shoulders.

Bullied at school because of his name, and mocked because his father, Herr Heinrich Schmidt, had cultivated a small black moustache and clicked his heels when he said Guten Tag. In 1950 mistrust of the Germans still ran high, even in the suburbs of Pretoria.

But young Adolf Gustav Schmidt was having a break from all that. It was early morning and his nose was pressed up against the glass of Jix Hobbies in Central Pretoria. In the window was the latest Hornby Dublo trainset in its beautiful box. It was a replica of the LNER A4 Locomotive “Mallard”, which set the world speed record in 1938 for a steam engine at 126 mph.

Adolf looked intently at the picture. He knew the model train was electric – they were no longer clockwork as in 1939, the year of his birth. He knew that the Hornby Model Mallard Record Breaker ran on three rails on a pressed template base and that the locomotive and its coaches were built exactly to scale – each 1/76th the size of the real thing. And it was so beautiful. He looked longingly at the accessories – the tracks, the parallel points, crane trucks, tank wagons and the exquisite station house. But it cost £5 1s 6d. If only he….

“Adolf!!! What are you doing here? You should be in school!!!” It was Mr Marais, coming to open the shop at exactly 8am, exactly fifteen minutes after the school bell had rung. Adolf jumped, his eyes wide. He hefted his threadbare bookbag to his shoulder and ran.

*****

When Adolf got home that afternoon, Herr Schmidt was waiting for him, flexing a thick black belt in his hands.

“Adolf. I am very disappointed. You were late for school again. You know what the penalty is.” Herr Schmidt raised the belt.

*****

Adolf’s mother heard him sobbing quietly in his room. His mother was ethereal – Adolf thought of her as a ghost, seldom seen unless there was trouble. She spent her time reading in her sewing room, never came downstairs for the dinner provided by the cook and rarely spoke. She avoided Herr Schmidt and kept her door locked at night.

But now she sat on his bed and stroked his hair.

“I just wanted to look at the trains and I forgot the time,” he sniffed. “I’m really sorry.”

“What trains do you mean?” asked his mother.

Adolf forgot his pain while he described every small detail of the Hornby Dublo trainset to his mother. “But it costs over five pounds!” he cried. “I’ll never have that much money!”

His mother patted him gently. “Well let’s see. Perhaps if you can earn half the money we could try and pay the rest.”

Adolf was overjoyed. He would look for a job tomorrow.

*****

After school the next day, Adolf set out for Jix Hobbies. Mr Marais smiled kindly at the boy. “What can I do for you, young Adolf?”

Adolf put down his ragged book bag and took off his cap. “Mr Marais, I would very much like to work for you in the afternoons. I can set up a Dublo for you and maybe the customers would buy more if they see it run?”

“And how much would you charge me?” Mr Marais put on his stern negotiating face.

“I-I-I thought maybe one shilling an afternoon?” said Adolf timidly.

“That’s an awful lot of money.” Mr Marais pretended to ponder at length.

“Very well. You’re hired,” he said finally. “But you are to be home by 5pm and you are to do your homework every night.”

“Thank you, Mr Marais!” Adolf could hardly stop himself from jumping for joy.

*****

The next few weeks were the happiest of Adolf’s short life. He set up the tracks, ran the trains and explained the finer technical details to Mr Marais’ customers. Mr Marais was happy too. The customers poured in to listen to the boy, and trainsets flew out of his shop. Mrs Marais took Adolf under her wing. Made him cookies and mended his clothes, including his tatty old bookbag.

By the Christmas holiday, Adolf had nearly enough money. “Just five more afternoons”, he thought.

A few days before Christmas, Mr Marais came to Adolf with a smile. “You’ve done us proud, young lad. Here’s a little bonus for you. Have a happy Christmas and we’ll see you in the New Year.”

Adolf was ecstatic. The bonus Mr Marais had given him meant that he had well over half the amount he needed for the train set. He rushed home and emptying his pockets, he handed the money to his Mother. “We’ll see”, she smiled, and patted him fondly on the arm.

******

It was Christmas Eve and Adolf couldn’t sleep. He had a sneak look under the tree and there was a large box addressed to him. Exactly the size of a train set. He dreamed of laying the tracks, making hills and mountains out of paper mache, trees out of pipe cleaners and green and brown paint, little houses out of matchboxes and even streetlights. Perhaps his father would help with that.

Christmas Day dawned and Adolf ran to the sitting room. His mother and father were there before him. His father smiled pleasantly and even wished him happy Christmas. His mother sat beside him, tense and silent.

His father reached over and handed Adolf his present. “Thank you very much Papa,” Adolf beamed. He could not wait to open it. “You may go ahead,” said his father.

Adolf ripped aside the Christmas paper and tore open the outer cover of the box.

Inside was a school suitcase.

MAY 2025

In May we examined travel writing and our tasks were to write an amusing/eventful or life-changing travel story (800 words). The 60-word task was to write an interesting dialogue we had overheard or encountered on our travels.

The contributions took us to New Zealand, UK, Turkey, Zimbabwe, Namibia, Botswana, South Africa (Graskop and Port St Johns) and Hawaii.

This month, we take you to London, Hawaii and New Zealand. In August, it’s off to Turkey and Namibia.

UPLIFTED

Two young Afrikaans men in a lift in London were discussing in some detail what they would do that evening with two naïve young English girls they had met. Far from home, their plans expanded as the lift ascended. The other occupants simply reflected British reserve. Finally, one suited man stepped out, saying as he left “Geniet die aand, kerels”.

SOPHIE’S CHOICE?

I am pretty easy-going, not given to aggressive shouting, biting or hurling myself at strangers like some I know. But then we moved house – smaller space, smaller garden and tension in the home. I had a sense that change was afoot. There were medical smells, injections delivered by soft-talking females in uniforms but they didn’t fool me. Paperwork. Lots of paperwork - flicking sheafs of paperwork. More tension in the home. For the first time I couldn’t read the faces around me and nobody told me anything. I was rattled.

Then we were in the car and heading to the airport. I know the airport…been there often fetching and delivering but this time I felt uneasy. This time I joined my people - on an unaccustomed lead, straps around my shoulders. We went to a different place, small, interesting smells. There was a counter, people hovering, more flapping paper. Low soothing voices – didn’t fool me. Ears pricked, attention full volume….

“You mustn’t worry about Sophie, Wilma. We will look after her all the way. She will be mildly sedated for her own comfort and with good care and supervision, her crate insulated. We will keep her in our special kennel area here until you notify us that you have arrived and settled in Hawaii. It’s a long way! She will arrive in LA and then it’s by road and barge to the Big Island. All the paperwork will be sent ahead for her arrival.”

I wasn’t quite sure what all that meant but I did know it wasn’t good. I needed to get back to the car.

“Sophie.. CALM DOWN. You are going to be alright. No, don’t pull…SOPHIE!”

“Wilma - just take her outside to the grass and let her quieten down with you. I will come out and give her a sedative. They taste good. The dogs love ‘em. Then I will collect her.”

*****

I found myself in a dark space. Comfortable actually, but dark and sort of fuzzy. There was a background noise and a strange movement. I could see shapes around me and weird smells but for some reason I felt just so very sleepy….

The noise changed and I could hear clunks and I bounced against the wooden slats around me before the movement changed to something smoother. Where were my people? Where was I? I licked at the hanging water bottle and went back to sleep….

Next thing I knew was a huge door opened and a machine reached into the space and the wooden slats and I swung into fresh air. It was dark, and the noise! It was terrifying. Now I was wide awake and shouting although my voice sounded funny. A man in a uniform walked towards me with a small bag…

“Hi there Sophie….welcome to LA. I guess you are finding all this noise and the smells a bit frightening?”

I liked his voice but I carried on shouting and decided to show my teeth: what else could I do?

“I am going to take care of you Sophie. Will you let me stroke you a little? “

He raised a flat hand to show me he planned to touch me. No way! I made like vicious – I can do that, you know. I did a deep growl, opened my mouth to show him my teeth and drew back my lips – that usually does the trick. But he just kept on talking, sort of quietly – no idea what he was saying. He lifted the other hand and opened out his fingers, turning them slowly. He came a little closer to the slats so I could smell his hands. Closer. I stopped shouting, growling, with my mouth closed.

“There you go Sophie. This is very scary stuff for you. Like a treat?”

Would I? Hmmm. But it smelled good. OK then.

“You enjoyed that, didn’t you. Like some more maybe?”

I would. I really would.

“Sophie… you are such a beautiful dog….” Quiet, soothing.

Maybe….

*****

This time when I woke up there were my people! I went nuts! I thought I would never see them again but there they were – all four of them laughing and hugging me. Treats like never before! Once we had all settled down I was on a leash again and walking. I was a bit stiff but head down I set about learning about this new place. There were dogs! I could smell them, my brain in overdrive trying to process all the new information. New plants, new soil, new rocks, new sea…new people, new car tyres. Could that be chickens and…. pigs?

“Now Sophie. Here you’re going to have to learn some different rules. Chicken and pigs wander freely all over this island. No chasing. NO CHASING! You got that? Some bits of the island are sacred so we can’t walk there and in the sea there are turtles and you mustn’t bother them. They‘re sacred too. But we have forests to hike in and so many places to swim. And volcanoes! You are going to love it!”

COROMANDEL – GOOD FOR THE SOUL

New Zealand is a land of great contrasts and diversity. Active volcanoes, spectacular caves, deep glacier lakes, verdant valleys, dazzling fjords, long sandy beaches and the spectacular snowcapped peaks of the Southern Alps.

That’s how the tour books describe it. You can see I have done my homework. New Zealand here we come.

After 19 hours of exhausting travel we finally land at Auckland. Suddenly all the weariness has depleted. I’m as fresh as a daisy. Well……. not quite.

“We’ve arrived,” I shout on top of my voice. Dave reminds me, “Shush, we are still in the aeroplane.”

After a good night’s sleep in one of the local hotels and purchasing of some light grocery supplies we take a taxi to pick up our motorhome. Dave is a bit apprehensive as he’s never pulled a caravan or driven a bus or, in fact, driven anything

bigger than a double cab bakkie.

“Oh! My! This is HUGE.” It’s a 4-berth with its own bathroom. I gulp and check Dave’s response.

“We’ll be fine. I can manage this.” He’s more positive than I am.

Getting out of the centre of Auckland is a challenge with you know who navigating. My nerves are shattered and it’s only the first day. Yikes. “Turn left here. It’s the Coromandel road,” I shout almost too late.

We hug the coastline and then begin to ascend, higher and higher. It’s getting darker when the worst storm in history hits us (or at least that’s what it seems like). Lightning flashes from all sides.

Dave is struggling with the gears and the trucks are hurtling down towards us at great speed. There is no yellow line and we are on the edge of the cliffs. The windscreen wipers aren’t working fast enough. I am terrified but try not to show it.

At last we arrive in Coromandel and stop at the first hotel we find – The Coromandel Hotel.

We are feeling a whole heap better after a lovely hot dinner and a glass of red wine. All is forgotten, or is it? Suddenly it’s pitch black. The management inform us that, due to the severity of the storm, the whole town is without power. So I’m not exaggerating about the severity of the storm.

“How are we going to find the caravan park?”, I bleat.

“It’s easy Ma’am. I’ll direct you.”

Oh! Really! Young man, I’m thinking. I’m the navigator and not the best at it either.

With a few wrong turns here and there, we have now found it. It is under water and we can’t find the office in the dark.

“There’s a flicker of light over there Joy. I’ll stop here and run there and book us in.”

Dave returns with a Stand number and a vague description of where it is.

“I can’t even see the Stand numbers in this pouring rain. Let’s just park here.”

“How can we see what we are doing?”, I ask.

“We have a torch. Now come on. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“In the dark I can’t see how to make up the fold down bed. Where’s the loo? I’m already fed up. I

hate camping. I wanna go home. Tomorrow. This was a big mistake.” My tears are now flowing

uncontrollably.

“There, there, dry up your tears and let’s go to sleep. Tomorrow’s another day. You’ll see things

differently then.”

“Well, I certainly hope so.”

“What a beautiful day Joy. Come and see the amazing view. By the way guess where we are parked?

Right in the middle of the road into the caravan park. Nobody can get in or out until we move.”

I already feel better. Nothing like a good night’s sleep and a cup of coffee to start the day. The view is amazing. Dazzling white sand beaches that go on forever. Coromandel’s motto is “Good for the Soul”.

“Right, Darl. I’ll go for a quick shower and then we can be on our way.” Armed with my towel, vanity bag, clean clothes and, of course, two x 2 N.Z. dollar coins, I head for the communal ablutions. Not a soul. Aren’t I lucky. Two dollars will give you 3 minutes of hot water it says at the meter outside the shower door. Surely that should be enough? Two dollars? Three minutes? Damn, it’s not enough. I’ll quickly step out and put another two dollars in. Forget the towel. No-one’s in here I tell myself.

Mistake.

“Hello.”

I whip around naked holding the important parts.

“Hello, nice day”, I say.

Oh! Gosh! How am I going to put the coin in without letting go of one hand. Which hand? Top hand it will have to be. Decision made. I let go. Drop the coin in the meter and dash into the shower cubicle.

“Nice bottom”, he says.

I can hear him in the shower further down and he’s whistling a merry tune. I stifle my giggles, finish showering and dressing with lightning speed and dash back to the motorhome.

I glance back and on the wall of the ablution block in bold letters it says “SHOWERS – MEN ONLY.

APRIL 2025

In April, we had a look at how three celebrated authors set about writing their novels. It was interesting to see the very different methods used by Niall Williams, Ann Cleeves and John Boyne. Bearing their methodologies in mind, the April 60 word exercise was to write about a conflict which is resolved in a positive manner. For the 800 word piece, we were provided with four extracts of poetry and required to write a story either incorporating or based on one of them.

Below please find our favourites this month.

CONFLICT IN THE WILD

She flirted constantly with him. He wasn’t really interested. It was blisteringly hot and lying under the shade of the camelthorn tree seemed just the place to be. Eventually he gave up but now she played hard to get with gnashing of teeth, fierce snarling and slapping out. She eventually succumbed. Four months later three precious lion cubs were born.

©Joy Herbst

UNEQUAL WARRIORS

Goliath lumbers forward, staring down at his scrawny contender. David fingers a smooth pebble, fitting it snugly into his worn, leather slingshot. He steps forward and the watching armies fall silent. Goliath smirks, his heavy sword glinting in the desert sun. Before he can swing it into attack, Goliath glimpses movement followed by a mortal strike.

David’s thankful eyes lift heavenward.

EACH RAINDROP HOLDS A LIFETIME

Before looking down there is a note of change in the air. A new smell. This one is a hint of rose and a buttery softness which floats as if unaided. In the bundle in my arms is my baby. She is dainty and snug in the soft new pink and yellow wrap. I breath in her scent again and sigh. She is perfect. Then she wriggles and I open the top of the wrap as her tiny arms fight to be released. Almost immediately, she settles again. I am overcome by the full miracle of her birth and the delicacy of this new life.

I just gaze at her. I am besotted. I ponder what she may be like as an adult – will she challenge the norms of society; invent something radical; start a new movement? What might she become? A doctor, an astronaut, a musician? She is feisty and yet contented. Her name suits her already – Cleona Faye – the strength of the lion and the gentleness of the fairy. I gaze at her. Her tiny fingers are closed into small fists.

A teardrop on my cheek marks my joy.

…..

The day was meant to be a fine, moderate Spring day, just right for my wedding.

Everything was planned perfectly. I had the bouquet of frangipani flowers I had always dreamed of; and a man, I knew I loved and who loved me. But from the early hours of the morning, the wind had been bringing in the clouds which now masked the sun’s feeble rays. As I finished my preparations the heavens began to release their heavy stormy load. By the time I arrived at the church it was a deluge. There was no road, just a river. The top of the pavement could not be seen as the grimy rainwater gushed along its edge and into the nearest stormwater drain. I had to curb negativity from spoiling my day. I was deeply disappointed and remember thinking that the photos would also be ruined with their bland grey background. Not a very auspicious start.

A single raindrop, aimed to perfection, landed right on the bridge of my nose and spilt both left and right. I blinked and pulled back a little, feeling something between bemused and annoyed. The best man was called to carry me onto the relatively dry pavement to keep my dress and shoes dry. I tried to hold an umbrella in one hand and a bouquet in the other. I could hear the faint organ music emanating from inside. I knew my friends and family were waiting for me. I took a deep breath trying to ignore the cold dampness seeping into my shoes. My slightly bedraggled flower girl smiled sheepishly and said, “I believe it’s good luck to get married in the rain.” I laughed and she hugged me.

….

When my gentle, “Good morning,” is ignored and there is no movement from the bed, I step away knowing that Gran may still sleep for a few hours. An hour later I check but there has been no change. I step closer to see if I can hear her breathing.

I cannot detect a breath, but in the quietness of the moment I hear the soft plop of a drip from the bathroom. “Ah, that tap’s dripping again. I must get Peter to fix it,” I think to myself. The drip had already formed a browning stain in the old porcelain basin, which elbow grease could not shift. I consciously turn my attention back to the bed.

Gran is lying on her side, knees up, with her head tucked into a soft pillow. She appears to be fast asleep with a beginning of a smile on her lips. I touch her arm which has pulled the duvet up to her chin, like a young child. Speaking softly, I again call her name. There is no response, except for the drip in the brown-stained basin. Her arm is cool to the touch. I look for any movement and cannot detect any. I call again, louder. There is no response as if too soon, her life is lived.

There is a gentle plop from the bathroom.

(Based on “Each raindrop holds a lifetime” – Echoes in the Rain by J G Emerson)

MARCH 2025

The theme for the longer March assignment was “Don’t Show, Don’t Tell – Leave room for the reader’s imagination”. Members were asked to describe a familiar setting and populate it with characters, bearing in mind that some details should be left for readers to figure out for themselves.

The shorter topic was to describe a barn as seen by a mother or father whose son had been killed in a war, without mentioning the son, the war, death or the mother/father. (It is hoped that within the description of the barn the reader will get a sense of the father/mother’s emotion – although exactly what that emotion is, the reader may not be able to pin down.)

Di Young’s “A Place for Weeping” and Jeannie Taljard’s “The Charity Shop” were chosen for you to enjoy.

A PLACE FOR WEEPING

He dragged open the huge, corrugated iron door. His boots sent small creatures scurrying

for the safety of piles of hessian sacks amid the tobacco dust on the cement floor. The familiar smell from the towering racks of tobacco drying used to be a comfort, a kind of pride even…a reassurance of the future. Not now. Dust motes and small flying insects swam in the filtered light, cathedral like. Now it was a place for weeping, quietly. His wife was grieving noisily in her kitchen. It was intolerable.

He had imagined generations shooting rats in here, as he had done, and his father before him. Now….what? All those years of rising at dawn, watching the weather, tending the plants in the fields, managing bad years, celebrating good prices at auction after good years. For what? His tears dripped from the grey stubble on his chin.

THE CHARITY SHOP

Sandra sighed with relief. No customers, just for a few minutes. She slumped forward and put her elbows on the counter. It was hard work being on her feet all day and keeping a smile on her face as she chatted to the shop’s many clients. She looked around at all the bric-a-brac that was on display. She only worked on Thursdays, but the stock in the charity store changed daily. Donations came from all over the area and each item told a story. Those beautiful plus sized clothes over there were from Miss Donegan who went on a crash diet and triumphantly got too thin for them. The glinting sets of cut glass on that shelf and the pretty Willow Pattern dinner service were from Mr and Mrs Bard who had downsized from a five bedroomed mansion to a retirement home. “My cooking days are over. Over!”, Mrs Bard had cried emphatically when she brought the crockery in. Behind her, Mr Bard nodded - a little too vigorously.

And over there in the “sports section” – a crowded corner of the room – was a beautiful fishing rod and reel donated by Mrs Alberts, who said “My husband is never to go fishing again”. This was after Mr Alberts had fallen on the rocks and broken his nose, three fingers and Mrs Alberts’ best thermos flask. Sandra smiled as she recalled that Mr Alberts had sneaked into to the charity shop the next day and bought the fishing rod back. But to no avail, because Mrs Alberts accosted him in the driveway and returned the equipment to the charity shop forthwith. Forever.

There were sadder stories. The deceased estates that yielded the treasures and traces and fragments of people’s lives. The cufflinks and sequinned handbags from glamorous times, the old photographs in old frames that used to mean so much, tossed aside by unknowing friends and families. The small Christening robes and baby shoes, sorely donated by grieving parents who could not bear to look at them. The dog collars, cat beds, birdcages – empty, no longer needed.

Sandra stood up straight again. She was getting morbid. Time for coffee. She turned to go to the kitchen. But just as she switched on the kettle, there was a timid knock on the shop door.

“Come in, come in!” Sandra called cheerily. She turned around and there was a tiny old man. Bent and tremulous, his Delft blue eyes held that sweet, blank look that meant that the person inside was diminishing, disappearing. His hands were misshapen and clumsy. He could barely hold the stick he used for support. An ancient cloth bag swung from his shoulder.

Sandra walked up close to him and asked “Can I help you? Are you looking for something special?”

“Yes….,” he whispered hesitantly. “Something nice for… for... for Betty. It’s her birthday, you know.”

“What would you like to buy for Betty? Perhaps a nice bowl or a scarf maybe?” Sandra guided him gently towards the shelves.

“No… no… I want to get her a necklace. It’s my wife’s birthday you know.”

Sandra took him to the stands where the costume jewellery hung, glittering and gaudy. She pointed out the necklaces, the bracelets and the avant garde earrings.

“Have a look at these, and when you’ve chosen something, just call me or come to the counter.” Sandra hoped there might be time to make a quick cuppa before he was ready.

The old man’s eyes glistened. “She will look so lovely in these. It’s her birthday you know.” He fingered the items reverently.

“I’ll be back in a minute” said Sandra, touching him lightly on the arm. He was a sweet old thing, she thought.

When she came back a few minutes later, the old man was already at the counter. He had an imitation pearl necklace and three mismatched teaspoons in his hand.

“I think she’ll like these”, he whispered.

“They’re very pretty” said Sandra. “I’m sure your wife will love them.”

“H-h-how much?” the old man asked.

“The necklace is R10 and the teaspoons are R5 for all of them, so that’s R15 altogether,” said Sandra, giving the old man a mental 50% discount.

“I-I-I’ve got it right here.” The old man fumbled with his bag and eventually it dropped onto the counter. After a huge effort, during which Sandra helped him unzip the bag and held it open for him, his clawed old hand emerged with a silvery R2 coin.

“There you are!” he whispered proudly. “There you are. For…. for… Betty. I want to spoil her. It’s her birthday, you know.”

“But….” Sandra started to say. She collected herself. “I hope your wife has a wonderful birthday. Here – let me put those in one of our complimentary gift bags for you.” She whisked the R20 sticker off a particularly nice gift bag and popped the necklace and the teaspoons into it.

“Thank you so much, my dear.” The old man held out his arthritic hand. Sandra took it between both of hers. She was surprised at how cold he was.

“You’re very cold!” she said. “Are you alright?”

The blue eyes sparked for a short instant.

“I think I’m on my way out, my dear. It’s only a matter of time. Now I must get home to Betty. It’s her birthday, you know.”

A week later, when Sandra was doing her next shift, she asked her colleague, Mary, if she perhaps knew the old man’s name. Mary’s face changed. “I think you mean Mr Hall? I’m surprised you saw him – he usually only came in on a Wednesday when his carer could drop him off. I’m afraid to say that he died over the weekend. He was very old and he had dementia – it was only a matter of time.”

Sandra was shocked. “That’s just what he said to me – only a matter of time. It must be terrible for his wife – her name is Betty?”

“Oh goodness no,” said Mary. “Betty died about ten years ago. According to her daughter, last Thursday would have been her birthday.”

Topic: To describe a barn as seen by a mother or father whose son had been killed in a war, without mentioning the son, the war, death or the mother/father. (It is hoped that within the description of the barn the reader will get a sense of the father/mother’s emotion – although exactly what that emotion is, the reader may not be able to pin down.)

REQUIEM

A desolate barn stands against the elements, one of its wide doors askew, groaning gently with each great gust. Inside, the ringing silence is profound and the dry dust overwhelming, stealing breath. But the smell of endeavour, old animal feed, still lingers. Cobwebs, snatched at by drafts, waft like fleeting memories, and dust motes dance eternally. We will remember them.

ABANDONMENT

The barn looms over the cracked red soil like a wounded beast, its massive frame slumped in surrender. The wind howls through its broken walls, dragging a long, guttural moan from its gaping mouth, where heavy wooden doors once stood firm, bound by old mortise and tenon joints. The air is thick with the bitter tang of rotting hay and stale engine oil. Against a sagging wall, two small horse saddles hang forgotten, their leather cracked and stiff with age.

Beyond the barn, the land itself feels abandoned. Once, red cattle grazed in lush fields of wheat, and golden sunflowers swayed in the breeze. Now, dust devils wander aimlessly across the barren earth.

They coil around a crumbling farmhouse, a ghostly relic swallowed by silence, a monument to everything left behind.

FEBRUARY 2025

In February, the group concentrated on improving our character descriptions. We were provided with a poem describing nine people in a coffee shop. The task, for both the long and short assignments was to choose characters from the poem and bring them to life.

Here are our favourites – two short pieces by Jennifer Smith and Fran de Waal, and a longer story, also by Jennifer.

ATTITUDE OF GRATITUDE

He of the pleasant, old kindly face,

Nodding to diners, all alone tho’ in place,

Cupping a warm drink for comfort.

Life has slipped by so quickly, it seems...

Reflective, introspective,

Savouring this moment, from past to present,

Feeling wistful, nostalgic,

Humbled, wrinkled and worn,

But quiet, unassuming, entirely content,

And with so much gratitude

For a life well spent!

THE PASTA EATER

Norcia, Italy. An ancient old lady, small and compact, is served Linguine with a meat sauce. It is heaped up so high that it spills over the side of her plate. With her glasses slouched to the tip of her nose she slowly and meticulously slurps the pasta into her mouth until the last string. Who says pasta is fattening?

©Fran de Waal

CAMARADERIE AND CONTEST

In a quiet corner of the Sweet & Sour, a popular local restaurant renowned for its excellent barista and baked goods, sat two aged gentlemen stooped over a rather splendid jade chess set. The sunlight through a nearby window caught their wrinkled faces, brought alive by their camaraderie and love of the game.

Old Dougie, with his thinning, paper-white hair and ruddy cheeks, focused intently on the board from behind rimless spectacles and raised a worn, tremorous hand over the pieces as he second-guessed his originally intended move. His shabby tweed jacket with its sprinkling of dog hairs over a wrinkled shirt lent him an endearingly un-put-together look. The original owner of those dog hairs lay quietly at his feet,devotedly observing his every gesture.

Across from Dougie sat his regular Tuesday adversary, Jack, who made a well turned out, albeit decrepit, figure in his crisp white shirt, tidy moustache and too-short cut grey tonsure. Dougie had taken in Jack’s neat appearance with a glance as they sat down. “Smart arse!” he had thought to himself, without rancour. “He clearly has a wife organising his domestic affairs, the lucky sod.”

Jack, for his part, stroked his sagging jowls thoughtfully as he studied the board, contemplating chess moves and their possible outcomes. His eyes behind his gold rimmed spectacles were clouded with age. Then, vague with memory...

As usual when Dougie took too long to make his play, Jack’s mind began to wander.

Today he was back in the Raj, where he had been born to British parents in the diplomatic corps. India, steamy, opulent and exotic, had seemed half civilised back then, everything an adventure. He still vaguely recalled his Ayah's tender touch and heard peacocks sometimes in his dreams. “Happiest years of my life,” he conceded silently, sentimentally.

Jack had gone on to receive a proper education ‘back home’, followed by six years in the army during WW2, then two decades in various British outposts, becoming a senior colonial administrator in his heyday. The experience had influenced both his character - nostalgic, well-intentioned but innately superior, and a bit patronising - and his political views. Despite certain reservations sparked by the evolving new world order, he was still proud of the role he (and Great Britain) had played in bringing order and progress to the colonies.

He and his wife Moira were ‘comfortable’, both materially and in their traditional expectations of the marriage. Their responsibilities to their three children had been discharged and they were dispersed across the world, living their best lives. As partners, he and Moira had learned to accommodate each other’s idiosyncrasies, but these days tended to live past each other. G&T could quite possibly be facilitating that process, Jack acknowledged somewhat wearily.

“Still with us, old chap?” Dougie broke into his reverie. “Ready?”

“Born ready!” quipped Jack.

Dougie had also once thought himself a success, and he certainly had a competitive streak. His late wife Margaret had taught him to play chess while they had lived as managers of a commercial farm in rural southern Africa, and he had never looked back. “I was never permitted to win another game!” Margaret had liked to tell people back then, but later: “Dougie becomes so obsessed with winning that he sometimes disregards the consequences of his actions,” she had confided to a girlfriend once, ruefully.

Nevertheless, Margaret understood the requirements for life on a farm in Africa - it took tough mindedness and strong character - and had been an enterprising, loyal and loving wife. They had buried two babies back then, lost to a croup epidemic. There had been no further pregnancies.

Decades later, Dougie was still extremely sentimental about his late wife, and held cherished memories of their many years together in Africa, its beauty, wildlife and the indigenous tribes they had lived amongst.

On his own since Margaret’s death in her early sixties, and his return ‘home’ to the UK on pension a few years later, Dougie’s characteristically brusque and forthright manner tended to compound his struggle to connect socially. Margaret had softened him, completed him somehow, and without her he felt alien in their native village.

While he appreciated hearth and home, and loved his dog, these days he found himself dwelling more and more on the past.

Nevertheless, Dougie and Jack seemed to rub along together rather nicely. Their friendship was a lifeline to Dougie and he looked forward to their Tuesday games immensely. Jack, for his part, claimed to simply enjoy getting out of the house and into male company for a while each week. To his mind, too much sentiment about it would have been unseemly.

The two self-confessed ‘old codgers’ proceeded to immerse themselves back into their chess game, perfectly happy in the moment, their lived-in faces animated and intent on the challenge.

JANUARY 2025

Annual Short Story Competition

Six short stories of 2500 words each were entered into the group’s annual short story competition. The theme was “Nature, Weather, Survival“ - or a combination of all three.

We are very grateful to our Judge, Bomber Webb, Editor of the Edge Community Newspaper, who gave up his time to critique each story and provide valuable comments. The first prize of a R150 voucher went to Jeannie Taljard for her story “Morse the Horse” and runner up with a R100 voucher was Ian Clarke’s story “The Day the Sea Came Back”.

You can read these stories by clicking the links below

The Day the Sea Came Back

Morse The Horse

OCTOBER 2024

Group Short Story Competition

Every year around this time, members of the group vanish from coffee shops, slink away from supermarkets and hibernate their Facebook pages as they go to ground to compose their annual short stories. The topic for 2024 is Nature, Weather, Survival. (Plenty of first-hand experiences to be had in Sedgefield!)

We are very grateful to our whirlwind Editor of the Edge, Bomber Webb, who has kindly agreed to judge our work.

October Assignment

In October, the 60-word topic was to tell a story using the 6 key aspects used in journalism: who, what, when, where, why, how.

Fran De Waal ‘s “Socks for my Birthday” was chosen as the best.

Socks for my Birthday

Marie Murray gave me a pair of socks. They were wrapped in the softest white paper. She said she

knitted them herself to go with my red dress. She said it’s the colour that suits me best. She said I

should put them on when I’m sad. I put them on. I put my feet up. They look like two shiny fish. I wiggle my toes. I bend my feet backwards and forwards, sideways and back. My fish are swimming in

a clear stream of water.

I wish I could show Marie my fish. She would have loved them.

**********

In the 800-word story, the group took on the role of journalists, writing for magazines or periodicals, keeping in mind the readers, their feelings and expectations. The group chose two submissions for publication - The Swart-Ness Monster? by Jean Wright, which was aimed at the

“Wedge Newspaper”, and “City of Contrasts” by Glenda Nancarrow which was written as if for a travel magazine aimed at travel adventurers.

The Swart-Ness Monster?

In a small town like Edgefield there are many residents with plenty of time and rumours

sometimes can get out of hand. The Wedge receives many strange stories, all based on solid

‘facts’ which over the years have been discounted and never heard of again.

However, over the past six months I am constantly being asked questions about the story of the

monster from the deep living in Edgefield lagoon. I dismissed this as here say. But I did keep

my ear the ground listening for any other reports which I thought might bear some truth.

The following morning while walking the dogs, I was accosted by a lady in a khaki shirt bearing

a familiar badge. She said politely

Excuse me, swimming is not allowed in the lagoon

What! My dogs have been swimming here for the past 25 years so now what is the problem

I’m not allowed to divulge that information, but it is a safety measure

Their safety and my insanity? Can I swim I the lagoon?

I would advise you not to.

Is the danger animal or vegetable? I asked

Sorry sir, I can’t say

On the walk home, I reflected on this outrage. Me and my dog’s freedom of movement

restricted? With no real reason given? I left the dogs at home and drove down to the lagoon.

I knew who would know what’s going on. I wended my way along the pedestrian pathway on

eastern shore of the lagoon to look for my old friend. Fanie had been fishing in the lagoon for

many years and had his day and (sometimes) night hangout in the bushes close to the road

bridge. There were two rods in the water with his brown Canus Afrikanus gazing at the water.

Is Fanie here I asked and I heard a grunt from the bushes.

Ja, Meneer long time no see, hey?

Yes I haven’t been fishing since the mouth closed

Ag, meneer you not missing much. The vis have gone on holiday with the swallows.

I understood he was referring to the annual pilgrimage of international tourists who spend their

summers in South Africa and leave for their homes overseas when autumn is on our doorstep.

Is there anything different about the lagoon that may have affected the fish stock?

Nay, Meneer but sometimes I see them jumping like something is chasing them

And what could that be I asked

Ag, he toothlessly smiled, probably that monster who lives here and eats all our fish

What, I cried, is there really a monster in the lagoon

I dunno, Meneer, on the night after I got my pension I was sitting here looking at the stars and I

heard a big splash and saw something swimming very fast close to the shore. I saw it a few

times that night but the next morning it was gone. And I never saw it again.

Thank you, Fanie. I handed him a R50

Thank you, Meneer. Holding up the note he said Perhaps I will see that big fish again.

He laughed with his gap-tooth smile and I returned to my car.

I then contacted a well known historian who was interested in the various wars involving South

African soldiers. From personal knowledge I knew that one of the commanders of South

Africa’s 32 Battalion, Colonel Buitengracht had lived on an elevated property on the northern

shores of the lagoon.

I had also heard that some of the battalion, the Buffalo Soldiers, had moved to the farm with

him. Perhaps the ‘boys’ had something to do with this monster. I offered drinks at a quiet pub

that evening and Bomb, as he was known, enthusiastically agreed. After a little lubrication, I

asked if he knew what the Buffalo Soldiers had got up to since they had moved into the region.

Honestly, you might be surprised but one of them has taken up landscape painting and the

other one is a fine woodworker.

So no shenanigans with weapons of war I asked smiling

Good heavens no, Bomb replied - that was 20 years ago. Technology has overtaken them and I

think they are enjoying a quiet life.

Thank you Bomb.

Another rumour squashed.

At my morning coffee the next day I bumped into Mike Nixon, a dedicated conservationist in

the area and asked if he had heard about a large creature living in Swartvlei. With his impish

grin he said

Well I did see a few very large footprints on the shore this morning.

And then he winked.

Case closed.

But in retrospect, if there was a rumour of a large creature living in Swartvlei, it would certainly

increase the tourist population in the area. It has done wonders in Scotland so why not here?

**********

City of Contrasts

I stepped off the train in Varanashi and was met by an explosion of senses. My nostrils were assailed by the smell of smoke. The atmosphere was muggy and a pall hung over the city – a mixture of fog, smog and ash. And the sounds! The bustle and shouting of hundreds of people. The honking of hundreds of horns. The clothing and people and buildings bursting with colour. I had finally arrived in the spiritual capital of India. A city of unique contrasts and contradictions that I couldn’t wait to explore.

Situated on the banks of the Ganges River in the northern Indian state of Uttar Pradesh, Varanasi is one of the oldest living cities in the world and by far the most sacred for Hindus. Pilgrims from all over India flock to Varanasi to bathe in the Ganges River’s sacred water and perform funeral rites. It holds significant cultural, spiritual and historical importance. A centre of learning and civilization for over three thousand years, this is where knowledge, philosophy and commerce have flourished.

So, you can imagine my excitement at finally making the long-awaited journey.

I decided to spend my first day wandering the teeming streets, acquainting myself with this fascinating city. The maze-like alleys were filled with countless temples, bright murals, tiny shops, hawkers…and cow dung. Cows are sacred in the Hindu religion and are found everywhere. They roam the streets of Varanasi during the day where they are greeted with

affection and food offerings from passers-by. As I did my best to avoid stepping in the piles of poo, the exotic smells of incense wafting from the surrounding temples were a welcome relief!

I awoke the next morning with a slight feeling of trepidation for the day ahead. I would be visiting the city’s famed ghats, a series of stepped embankments built along the Ganges River, where families come to cremate their dead. The funeral rites held here carry huge religious and cultural significance, as the departed souls are said to achieve ‘moksha’ – a reprieve from the Hindu rebirth cycle and attain salvation.

Initially I found the experience of watching all the carefully bathed and wrapped bodies being placed on the numerous adjacent funeral pyres quite unsettling, depressing even. But I soon began to realise that death in Varanasi is not taboo or a private affair like it is in the West. It’s a celebration, and it offered me a profound glimpse into the Hindu belief in life and death. The flames of these fires are never extinguished and are sacred. It certainly explained the ubiquitous smoke, fog and ash permeating the atmosphere!

The ghats were a bustling hive of activity. Pilgrims going about their daily lives alongside the burning bodies, performing rituals, meditating, practising yoga. Many used the bottom steps of the ghats to bathe and wash dirty clothes. A mixture of sacred and profane which is found throughout Varanasi.

Osho, the Indian mystic, described it as: ‘the negative and the positive being indissolubly and inevitably united; they are two aspects of the same energy: we must accept both.’ Is this why both the spiritual ablutions and the dirty surroundings co-exist? The stink of the dung intermingled with the perfume of incense? Ganges, the world’s holiest river is also the world’s most polluted?

As I was leaving the ghats I came upon a Sadhu – a holy man who has given up possessions and family to lead a celibate life. Sadhus dedicate their lives to prayer, meditation and yoga to achieve enlightenment. Some cover themselves in ash and chalk and smoke pot all day. It was just my luck to encounter a Naga Sadhu – a naked Sadhu. Staring at this ghoulish creature, covered in the ashes of the dead, with snake-like braids and a long beard, glassy eyes and a large protruding member was more than a little scary…and repulsive.

However, the highlight of my trip was yet to come. I took a boat ride on the Ganges to witness the famous Ganga Aarti, performed on the banks of the Ganges at sunset every evening. Aarti means Ceremony of Lights and is performed to offer prayers to the goddess Ganga. Blazing brass oil lamps are swung by priests and monks, in carefully choreographed movements, while myriad candles light up the night sky. The air is filled with incense and smoke. Religious chants and mantras are set to the sound of clashing cymbals, ringing bells, drum beats and conch shells. At the end of the ceremony marigold petals are scattered on the Ganges. The celebration had a magical ambiance which left a lasting impression on me.

What a way to end my last day in Varanasi. The sunset and fires from the ghats lit up the night sky, turning it a spectacular toffee apple red.

Varanasi, a city of tremendous contrasts. The stench, the polluted river, the dirty streets, the poverty all starkly juxtaposed with the quintessence of Indian culture and religion - the spirituality, the colours, the sounds and joy of celebration.

It is a frenetic, dirty city but oh, the energy, its radiance. Yellow rickshaws, purple saris, pink sunrises, orange sadhu robes, blue boats, red sunsets, its colours, its life!

If you enjoy luxury and a first world experience, don’t come here. But if you can look past the dirt and the poverty and want an experience that will leave an indelible print on your soul and change your perceptions forever, visit Varanasi.

You’ll be glad of the experience.

SEPTEMBER 2024

September Assignment

The group’s September 800-word assignment was to write a story with three characters, a child, his/her dog, and an elderly person, and to bring them to life for a reader. Ian Clarke’s “Precious Moments” was chosen for publication. His story comes straight from his creative cortex – no AI involved!

Precious Moments

The large shaggy dog looked down at his small companion and gently licked her tousled matted hair. Every day they fled to the dam, escaping the turmoil and anger of the house they shared with her mother and siblings, and whichever man had shared her mother’s bed the night before. No one ever noticed their absence.

She leant her thin body against his ribs for warmth. He shielded her from the early morning chill blowing off the water. The ducks squawking and splashing amongst the reeds and in the shallows seemed to bring some normality to their lives. Both were listening for the squeak and crunch of wheels on the gravel path coming from the care home hidden in the woods.

I hear it …. he’s coming ….

She looked up at him.

He pricked his ears, listening.

The squeaking and crunching grew louder and stopped behind them.

Morning Brak …. morning Meisie Kind …. how are you both today ….

Brak’s tail thumped stirring a small cloud of dust.

She stood, even then not much higher than Brak’s head, happiness spreading over her face.

Morning Oupa Gert …. we are OK thank you …. how’s Oupa ….

She looked up at him and then down at her bare feet, her arms hugging her scrawny body.

I’m …. I’m sorry to ask Oupa …. did … did Oupa bring some food …. We had nothing to eat last night

His crinkled face broke into a toothy grin.

Of course, my kind …. and some meat for you too Brak ….

He rummaged in the bag on his lap with his right hand and drew out a parcel in a folded paper serviette and a covered plastic bowl.

Daar’sy …. Two nice thick egg and bacon sandwiches, a jam toast and two bananas for you ….

He handed the package to the child.

Brak’s eyes followed every move of Oupa Gert’s hand, bubbles of saliva bursting from his jowls.

And a bowl of last night’s stew for you Brak ….

He leant forward and placed it next to the wheel of his chair.

Brak could barely contain himself but managed to hold back until the bowl was on the ground, then he buried his face in it, slurping frantically. His little friend sat primly on the ground next to him, unwrapped the parcel carefully and, breaking the sandwiches into small pieces, slowly worked her way through them. She seemed to need the moments to last as long as possible.

Oupa Gert looked on, a mixture of sadness and pleasure on his furrowed face. Staring across the water he tried not to think of the days when he had been able to take his boat out to sea with his dog Prince keeping watch from the safety of the small wheelhouse. Then that terrible accident when everything had changed.

Ag well … best forgotten …. at least I have this now ….

He tucked the blanket more snugly around his lifeless legs and dragging his left arm across his lap to a more comfortable position, he settled down to watch his companions.

Brak gave a final lick of the bowl to make sure nothing was left and plumped down looking hopefully at his small companion, still engrossed in her meal. After a few minutes she looked up at him, smiled and passed the last piece across to him. A small ritual they had adopted, cementing their friendship. With a satisfied sigh, she licked her fingers then carefully folded the serviette.

A peaceful silence settled over the trio, sharing the precious moments. Even the ducks seemed less noisy and at peace.

The sun moved slowly overhead. Gradually its warmth started to fade.

Oupa Gert roused himself from his doze, stretched his right arm above his head and yawned.

Ag well my dear friends another lovely day …. but now I need to get back …. The nurses get worried if I stay away too long

Meisie Kind and Brak did their own stretching and yawning. Brak gave the bowl a final hopeful lick chasing it across the ground. She picked it up, wiped it with the serviette and put it in the bag on Oupa Gert’s lap, carefully wedging it next to the blanket.

Thank you Oupa Gert …. when I grow up me and Brak will come and look after you ….

Ag, my child …. now that is something I will look forward to ….

He smiled.

Clicking the motorised chair into gear, he turned it and moved slowly away, raising his right arm in farewell.

The crunching and squeaking slowly faded.

Brak and his little companion huddled against each other. They were in no hurry to return.

The group’s 60-word assignment was to describe any scene, event or occurrence so that a reader could feel and

experience it. Fran de Waal’s “Dandelion” was chosen for you to enjoy:

Dandelion

A lone dandelion seed skids lazily over the polished floor. Carried by an unseen breeze it rises and floats, its delicate threads catching the golden light from the early morning sun.

Time slows, and in its brief flight, the seed is both fragile and infinite on its journey to a different soil, starting a new

cycle of life and death.

AUGUST 2024

The group’s August assignment was to write a shocking/riveting opening paragraph to a memoir and then, acting as a ghostwriter, to write a memoir of someone, real or imagined. We hope you enjoy Fran de Waal’s story, written in

honour of “Eric the Eel”:

ERIC THE EEL, A MEMORY

The sound of laughter dies down. He is going to drown! Get some help! The swimmer grabs the line. The crowd gasps. He’s moving again! A wave of rhythmic clapping erupts. Go! Go! Go! At last, he shakily lifts himself out of the pool. The

crowd roars. How do you feel? asks the poolman. I’m feeling good. I am happy!

After the race, I was so tired. I went to the changing room. I laid down because Couldn’t feel my body. Back in my apartment in the Olympic Village, I slept from eleven o’clock to four o’clock. When I woke up, I saw my picture on the television. Why is my picture on the screen? Whew! I was worried. Did I do something wrong?

I felt very hungry but was nervous to go to the restaurant where the athletes ate.

Perhaps they all saw the pictures of me.

The restaurant is big with many tables. I looked for a quiet table in a corner. When I sat down, so many people came up to me. Some wanted to take my photograph. Others pushed papers and pens into my hand, wanting me to sign my autograph. I did not understand what was going on.

You are famous, a cameraman from the TV said. Your story is all over the world. Porque? Because you were brave to swim in an Olympic 100 m championship when youcannot swim well, he said.

I, Eric Moussambani Malonga* from Equatorial Guinea was legendary! My family would be so proud of me.

The newspapers called me Eric the Eel. They said I swim like an eel, generating waves, swimming in curves, bending and twisting. I liked the name and laughed when I saw the video.

They asked me so many questions. I said I would tell them: The government put out a call for athletes to try out for the Olympics in Sydney in 2000. I was the only man who turned up for the swimming trials.

I liked swimming but not well. They said I had to train in a swimming pool. My country did not have swimming pools, but I found a small one at a hotel. It was 13 metres long. I did not have a coach to teach me. Fishermen told me how to kick my legs and how to stay above water. For eight months, I swam there.

The first time I saw the Olympic 50m pool at the Sydney International Aquatic Centre, I was shocked. It was s so bíg! Before the event, I watched the American swimming team and tried to copy their techniques. A coach from South Africa saw I was straining and said he could help. He taught me some techniques and told me what to expect on the day of the event. He gave me a swim brief and goggles.

The day of the men’s 100m freestyle heat, there were two other swimmers with me on the blocks, Karin Bare from Nigeria and Tajikistan’s Farkhod Oripov from Tajikistan. I was surprised when they dived into the pool before the starting gun went off. They were disqualified and I was the only one standing before thousands of people. I felt so scared and lonely.

The first 50 metres I swam as hard as I could. I made a good tumble but then I began to struggle. In that last 20 metres, to be honest, I was so tired I was going to stop. I couldn’t feel my legs or arms, everything was very heavy. I was sinking and grabbed the lines to hold myself up. When I lifted my head out of the water, I heard people shouting and cheering my name, Eric! Eric! That gave me more power to finish.

I touched the wall at a time of 1:52.72sec. I was overall 71st in the Olympics, the slowest in the history of the Olympic games… a world record but no medals, heh-heh. The gold medal was won by a Dutch swimmer in 48:30sec. It is difficult to pronounce his name, Van den Hoogenband.

When I came home, people from my village came to congratulate me. I was so motivated by the experience that I kept on swimming and practising. By 2004, I could swim the 100m in 56.9sec.

My name became famous in the country. I could convince the government and business people to build a 50m swimming pool. Today, 20 years later, the country has two! I started coaching children to swim and today I am the Equatorial Guinee national swimming team coach.

*Eric Moussambani qualified for the Equatorial Guinee Olympic team through a wildcard draw designed to encourage participation by developing countries, even though they don’t meet qualification standards.

JULY 2024

Our brief for the July meeting was to write a story featuring any number of characters (real or imagined) with a genuine historical theme.

Many interesting and informative stories emerged, and we hope you enjoy Fran de Waal’s outstanding contribution “The Exile” below:

THE EXILE

The refugee from Africa has become a tourist attraction in Clarens, Switzerland. An oddity,

this ugly old man, sitting on the stoep of Villa Dubochet. Clumsy and tired, his sagging skin

streams over his jaw. All that remains of his fierce dark eyes are tiny slits hidden above puffy

pockets of fat, his feet blue and swollen from water retention due to his asthmatic lungs.

The President of the now-defunct Republic of the Transvaal is still and quiet. To bystanders,

he seems already dead.

His mind, however, is never quiet. His thoughts are a jumble of conversations, bitter regrets,

and incessant reasoning with God and with himself. The Statenbijbel, from which he could

quote whole passages, lies on the table. He believes God had dictated the Bible to humanity

and therefore every word in it is true. For example, the earth is flat, as the Bible says.

At times, he imagines himself young, upright and strong again. Then he is David, fighting the

mighty Goliath, the British Empire. He hums Psalm 144: “Praise be to the Lord my Rock, who

trains my hands for war, my fingers for battle … deliver me and rescue me from the mighty

waters, from the hands of foreigners whose mouths are full of lies, whose right hands are

deceitful.”

At other times, he gives in to despair. He feverishly implores: “God, did you indeed call me

to this task of President of this nation, or was it a trap set by Satan? Did you bring me to

damnation, to this foreign land to be judged as a coward?”

Now the judge becomes a prophet with the face of General Koos de la Rey. He is back in the

Volksraad, the Transvaal Parliament. The fervour is running high. Kruger wants war. De la

Rey wants peace.

“Honorable member De la Rey, are you a coward? Do you want to give our country to the

British, the foreigners, the bloodsuckers, concession hunters, the scum swirling around our

state buildings, greedy to get their hands on our gold?” he roars, slamming his huge fist on

the podium.

The house erupts in raucous shouting, some backing De la Rey, others yelping like lapdogs,

“War! War!”.

The tall, bearded De la Rey does not take part in the bawling. He slowly rises from his chair.

He glares at Kruger, his deep-set eyes blazing.

“You call me a coward because I don’t want to go to war with England. Mister President, I

hope to avoid war, but if the time comes, I will be fighting long after you, Paul Kruger, have

given up and fled for safety.”

Profoundly unsettled, the old President shuts his eyes tight as if to erase this event from his

memory.

A letter from General Louis Botha, commander of the Boer Republic’s fighters, arrives. The

letter is six weeks old, dated October 1901.

“Dear Mr. President,

“Most of the troops have deserted the war. They went home to farm and to look after their

families.

“The few remaining ones, the Bittereinders, the die-hards, have divided into small forces,

harassing, delaying, and disrupting the British Troops. We had several successes in upsetting

the enemy lines but the enemy has embarked on a new strategy to break us down.

“Lord Kitchener, who took over command of the British troops, is burning down farms and

houses. They call it the scorched earth policy. Women and children are sent to camps, and

thousands have died of diseases and hunger. The situation is dire, Mr. President.”

The old man throws on Jeremiah’s cloak. He commands his secretary to write to Botha, “Tell

my people even if the sword is at their throats, they must keep fighting. God is on their side.

The scorching wind from the desert will not destroy my people. Tell them to completely

trust in God and the enemy will be defeated.”

Another letter from Botha lies unopened on the table for several days. At last, he opens it.

The letter is dated January 1902.

“Dear Mr. President,

“We cannot hold out any longer. We have surrendered and are negotiating for the best

solution. Kitchener wants reconciliation, but Milner is hostile and wants to humiliate us at

all costs. All our terms were rejected.

“Perhaps a united country under one government would bring peace and prosperity,” Botha

diplomatically slips the hot potato onto the President’s lap.

In his final letter to his people, there is some acceptance. The bone-tired old President

writes: “Much that has been built is now destroyed, damaged, levelled. But with unity of

purpose and unity of strength, that which has been pulled down can be built again.”

To German sympathizers, his only words are, “My grief is beyond expression.”

The President of the Republic of Transvaal died in Clarens on 14 July 1904. His Bible lay open

on the table beside him.

__________________________________________________________________

*Statenbijbel: the Dutch Bible

**Ecclesiastes 12:14 For God shall bring every work into judgment, with every secret thing,

whether it be good, or whether it be evil.

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