Embedded Files
Our Creative Writing group members produce pieces each month following a suggested theme or topic. You can read their contributions below.
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.
© Diana Young
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.
© Fran de Waal
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.
© Jeannie Taljard
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.
© Jean Wright
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.
© Jennifer Smith
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.
© Fran de Waal
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.
© Jeannie Taljard
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”.
© Diana Young
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!”
© Diana Young
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.
© Joy Herbst
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.
©Melanie Cloete
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)
©Melanie Cloete
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.
© Diana Young
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.”
© Jeannie Taljard
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.
© Jennifer Smith
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.
© Fran de Waal
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!
©Jennifer Smith
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.
©Jennifer Smith
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
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.
© FRAN DE WAAL
**********
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?
© JEAN WRIGHT
**********
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.
© GLENDA NANCARROW
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.
© IAN CLARKE
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.
© FRAN DE WAAL
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.
© FRAN DE WAAL
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.
© FRAN DE WAAL
Page updated
Google Sites
Report abuse