Creative Writing 2

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

AUGUST 2025

2 September meeting

For our September meeting we had the challenge of a topic “Do I know you?” Or we could write what we felt like, any topic, any format.

Sharon du Plessis wrote a fascinating set of Haikus which could have been in a dreamy state. (Haiku is originally a three line poem which now has evolved into many formats)   There is a clever change of text positioning which emphasizes the switch from dream to reality. Questions remain unanswered, unanswerable!

Is it not often said

that we have free will to choose,

then death's hour too?

6 months left to live...

walked in front of a bus

unexpectedly?

Befriending devils

to live a little longer...

prolonged departure?

When I pull out weeds

do the flowers I've planted

hear their frightened screams?

I was left millions

by the man that once raped me...

Should I choose comfort?

When I squish a bug...

Do the children-gods above,

kill us that way too?

What if time is thus:

We stand still while it passes

scenes and acts though us?

Life-Death choice to make?

I choose both, whorled in cycles.

Infinite fractals...

Woke up this morning

and realised I'm now dreaming.

Is life real or not?

Then there is a gem by Sandy Louw, so clearly and well described, with an illuminating gong at the end!

Do I know you?

It has become increasingly difficult to make myself pay my weekly visit. What was once a gesture of love has become a chore, a duty that I would rather not fulfill. However, the idea of living with the guilt of not doing what I know I should, while I still can, once the opportunity to show my love has been removed, drives me to get into my car and make my way to Garden Village.

I park in the shade outside her room, and gently open the stoep door, bearing my weekly gift of a bunch of flowers from our garden. Not that she would realise that anymore. She hasn’t seen that garden that she used to tend so lovingly, for more than a year, so any blooms from it are now unfamiliar.

She is sitting in her favourite chair, wearing the fluffy pink jacket I brought her at the start of winter, and she has a warm knee blanket on her lap. She is looking tired, I think to myself. Which is strange, because all she really does these days is sit and doze in her chair.

Hullo, my darling. Look what I have brought you. Some beautiful spring flowers from your garden. I give her a hug, but find her body disturbingly bony. Not at all how she used to be. The girlish figure she was once so proud of stolen away by Time.

I don’t have a garden with those flowers! But they are pretty. Where did you get them?

I picked them in our garden, from the bed under our bedroom window, just before I came here, so they are nice and fresh.

Oh, okay. Put them down over there.

I pull up a chair, and sit next to her. I take her hand as I try to draw her into a conversation of sorts, but it is very hard.

Then suddenly, as if the skin contact has paid off - lucidity.

You know, you remind me of someone I used to know. He looked just like you, but he was younger, and maybe a bit more handsome! Maybe it was your brother?

Darling, I used to be young and handsome! Remember when we were all younger, and better-looking than we are now? We used to have fun in the old days, going to the beach, visiting friends, playing tennis. That was always your favourite.

Lucidity gone.

I never played tennis! I don’t know how. You must be confusing me with someone else.

My darling, I know you get easily confused these days, but you and I used to make a jolly good pair on the tennis court. Don’t you remember? And we often played with Joe and Mavis. We even beat them on occasion, although they were really good players.

I don’t know any Joe and Mavis! You are making this up! Why are you telling me this nonsense? Have we ever even met before? I don’t think I have ever seen you before!

Sadly, I realise that this attempt at reaching out to her has failed, and I might as well leave. Any further attempts on my part will lead to exhaustion for her in her frail state of being, and will just make me even more miserable.

Goodbye, my darling. I will come and visit you again next Saturday, about the same time.

I don’t think you need to come again! I have never met you before, so I don’t know why you keep bothering me!

As I leave her room, I wipe away a tear from my cheek.  My beautiful wife has been reduced to a shadow of the vibrant girl I married so many years ago, and no longer even recognizes me, despite the 50 years we lived together.

And then our author Pixie Emslie did herself proud. If you have been to Zimbabwe you will appreciate the scene setting. Then there is the great and humorous revelation at the end.

A Stranger in Town

He was dressed in plain khaki shorts and a nondescript cotton tee shirt in a colour that could best be described as faded. Somewhat worn sandals completed his ensemble – and hopefully rendered him almost invisible and definitely not recognisable, or at least not recognisable by the general population of the area.

Or so he believed. After all this was the fourth time he had quietly flown in to Harare on a private flight and been picked up in an old LandRover that could pass as any of the ubiquitous vehicles driven by the locals. From here it was a wonderful drive through endless miles of bush where the biggest danger was from a stray kudu or elephant wandering down the road.

Just making the arrangements to get away for ten days was a task that took weeks, no months, of careful planning and co-ordinating the diaries of some of the world’s most powerful people. It could not be made public that he wasn’t at home or the world’s press would be on to him. Where was he going? Was he ill? Would his wife accompany him (God forbid)? So he had appeared as usual beside her just last night at a State reception, and as always kept his counsel, smiling and making small talk to some duchess or other seated on his right. For the next ten days it was imperative that none of their duties required him to be loyally at her side, so no-one would ask awkward questions as to why he wasn’t there, and should an emergency arise there was always a Plan B to get back home, even if it entailed using military vehicles and supersonic planes.

Smiling at the way his thoughts were drifting, he let himself sink into the blissful thought of ten days, ten whole days, on a strong, safe and comfortable houseboat with his beloved Janissa. Just him and her – and of course a discreet security detail as well as a small group of trusted staff.  And Jinny. She was always game to go to the most outlandish places, to be there with him and, thank the heavens, to give him the comfort and joy of a hidden lover, the secret of his life that everyone in his immediate circle knew about but daren’t mention.

At last they came to the shores of magnificent Kariba and there, waiting beside an old Toyota was Janissa. Looking delectable, tall, slender and tanned, she had arrived a few days earlier, along with his security staff to make sure everything was in order.

The days went by with a blissful routine. They rose early to watch the magic of the sunrise over the water, the brightly coloured birds darting about, bee-eaters and honey guides, sunbirds and countless water fowl. Before breakfast the crew set up a swimming area at the back of the boat where they could safely dive into the water without fear of the ever-present crocodiles, and enjoy an early swim in the slightly brown waters.

‘Let’s go across to Milibisi today,’ Janissa suggested. ‘I need to feel some solid ground and actually there is that little market there where we found superb wood and soapstone carvings. last year. Remember? I need to buy a few things to take home as gifts too.’

The plans was discussed, and finally agreed to. They dressed carefully, making sure they looked like every other tourist – casual clothes, shoulder bags, and hats.

There were a few other tourists about, clearly visitors as they stood out from among the African locals, but they felt safe knowing their security people were keeping a close watch on the scene.

‘Look at this.’ Jinny held up a beautifully carved stone head, even the wrinkles showing on its face. As he turned to her an older woman looking at some beads nearby also turned to look. A smile lit her face.

‘Goodness, hello old chap. Haven’t we met somewhere before?’

Before he could even think of an answer he was hustled out of the way, the little market stall cleared and a few men, obviously not tourists, stood around holding baskets and carvings.  Without a word they were hustled back into the Land Rover and whisked away down the dusty track.

Safe at last Janissa started to giggle. Somewhat hysterically, but she couldn’t help herself.

‘Darling, just imagine the story she’s going to tell back home. That was the Duchess you know, your damned cousin so of course she knew it was you. But there will be a picture of you at a function in London this morning, its already being put into tonight’s paper – so if she says anything people will think she was just drunk again, imagining seeing you in

Africa of all places. She’ll never live it down. I can’t wait to hear what the rumours are when we get back.’

It was all he could do not to join the laughter as he sat back on the deck of the houseboat and lifted a glass of

Champagne. ‘To dear cousin Flo. May she enjoy her African sojourn.’

JULY 2025

Our mission was to write a story with a title “Hidden House” with a one thousand word limit.

Our group decided to share two pieces.

HIDDEN HOUSE

They sat together on the porch of her parent’s small cottage enjoying an early morning coffee in the sun as it rose from a calm sea. Situated high on a hillside they had a commanding view of the coastline running off into the distance.

For a while they sat in shared silence of togetherness.  She spoke first.” You never talk about yourself. Not even where you were born.

 “It was somewhere near Dullstroom” he said.

Again silence…

“How long were you there?”

 More silence….

 “I do not remember…it is nothing really”

“Yes, but nothing is sometimes everything”.

 They sat, gazing at the ocean for a while.

“It’s just that…..I love you….so I want to know all about you so that I can share the past as well as the future of your life with you.

“Have you ever gone back there?”

No comment.

An awkward shifting of feet and then an almost aggressive,

 “No”

And so, the subject of his origins remained unspoken, hidden, as the last few days of their holiday sped by.

However, her comments about the need for a shared past as well as a shared future slowly took root within his being causing deep anguish. After a great deal of consideration, he sought counselling with a professional which led to a series of weekly sessions.

It was many weeks before the matter was again brought up by our young couple.

“Do you actually know where it is?” she asked.

“Yes I do and what is more, I now own it”

So, will you take me there someday?”

“I think I could do that…..someday” he said with some reservation.

Time went by without any mention of the house and their lives were busied about by their work and the shared activities of the young lovers, their favorite time being the shared mugs of coffee in the early mornings when the sun warmed their bodies.

It was on one such morning that he suddenly said,

“I can take a couple of days off to take you to Dullstroom if you could do the same”

“I would love that” she said, curious as to what may have prompted this sudden about turn in his behaviour.

She asked no probing questions, and it was no sooner said than done and two weeks later they found themselves in a comfortable B&B in the charming town of Dullstroom.

The next morning, they set off on a dusty track used by logging trucks, wending their way through the forest.

He had become very quiet, not responding freely to her questions, as though he had done the wrong thing by agreeing to, or rather having being the author of the difficult situation in which he now found himself. They carried on in silence but soon came to a halt at what was once a clearing but was now overgrown with bushes, vines and creepers and young trees. Pointing to one side he said, almost in a whisper, go and have a look, I will follow, when I can.

The small house was almost not recognizable as a house being so hidden in bushes and saplings.  Wild vines clung viciously to walls……. curtains of leaves behind which hid windows and limp doors on rusted hinges.  Four short stone steps took her onto a small porch where an open door gave her access to the inside where all was decaying. She shivered with fear and made her way back to the small porch where he was now standing, gazing at memories. As she approached him, she was aware that he was weeping quietly.  Without turning to face her he spoke

“I was 4 or 5 and playing with my oxtail bone animals in the garden when I heard a commotion coming from the house.

Mommy and Daddy were arguing as they often did. Their voices became louder and louder and angrier and then screams and thuds and I ran to see what was happening. I can still remember how scared I felt. And then I saw my mother lying on the floor and my father beating her with a long piece of heavy piping and shouting all the time.  It was terrible and I started screaming and running as fast as I could, running and crying and even when I heard a terrible bang I just kept running and running.

During the telling of his story his weeping intensified and at times great heaving sobs racked his whole being, blocking any coherent uttering. Then, at last and very slowly a measure of calm was restored to his tortured soul, and he lay in her arms, completely spent.

Dudley Barnes                     

Hidden House

We moved town when mom secured a position as matron at the Life hospital. She was so excited because it was her first time to be fully in command. She had been a nursing sister and then for the past six years a deputy matron. Also, she needed additional money. She was paying off my late father’s considerable gambling debts. There was no way out, and I was fully aware of it after the two broad and scarred thugs came to our house and openly threatened her. They went through the house taking all her jewelry, ornaments, a cassette player, my cellphone and laptop as well as our television. Mom had a long debate with them until they agreed to leave her old Toyota car. She needed it to get to and from work.

When mom secured the matron position, she offered to pay an increased monthly amount to the thugs. They tried to force higher payments than mom had offered. I was so incensed when I overheard this that I stormed into the kitchen, grabbed the cleaver and yelled at them to get out.

I don’t know who was more shocked, my ma or the thugs, but they swore at me and left. I must have been fearsome brandishing the sharp cleaver.

Mom was glowing when she came into the room at our boarding house and asked me to get dressed to go out. We got into the car and drove to the outskirts of town and up to a new huge sprawling and very upmarket town house complex with impressive high gates. The massive gates displayed the name Somerset Heights in huge gold letters. Mom took out a remote, opened the gates and drove in.

I’m going to show you our new house. A hidden house.

I was astounded, taking in the manicured lawns, perfectly arranged indigenous shrubs, a marble fountain in the center of an elevated roundabout.

I was more astounded when we drove through the complex and ma opened a second gate, drove out, then along a bumpy dirt track to stop at a small cottage standing alone, without any fence. The old cottage with flaking paint looked as though it was crouching, almost ashamed, wanting to hide. Ashamed of being an embarrassment to the great Somerset Heights. I did not know what to say.

“Come on, I have the keys, let me show you around. It is lovely, lots of potential, and so much better than paying rent, which is a waste. It will be just perfect for us.”

I followed, reluctant, disappointed, my spirits falling further when I discovered that the back windows looked out onto the site of the town rubbish dump. Ma could no doubt sense my disappointment and was at her cheerful best describing plans which I could barely focus on.

I must give immense credit to ma. Where she got the energy, I have no idea. The hospital thrived under her hand, and had to expand twice within two years, gaining a laudable reputation. Mom got a new title, Director, Medical Services, which came with responsibility for outlying clinics. Also, more money and a new car.

The cottage was transformed. It was bright, standing in a magnificent garden surrounded by a hedge which screened us from the town refuse dump. Due to the horrendous road to the cottage, we continued to access it by routing through Somerset Heights. I always met my friends at the entrance and never invited anyone to the hidden cottage. Although it was transformed, my initial shame had not fully dissipated. I must admit that I could not get over my intense shame, especially after moving through the splendour of Somerset heights. Mom did have friends around who mostly warmed to the charming hidden gem as Aunt Agatha called it. But, they were all polite people, good friends.

I met Rob at school. There was a mutual attraction, and he asked me out. We met at the entrance to Somerset Heights. He just assumed that I lived there as he did not know of the hidden house. Our relationship developed quickly. We seemed ideally suited, and one lazy afternoon sipping coffee at a local coffee shop he said something like …”when we are married.”

I was so surprised. My heart lept, I laughed, asked him to repeat it. He reddened like he always did with embarrassment, his neck and throat, even his chin going bright red. He grinned and repeated it. We both laughed, but it had opened a door, opened a new chapter where when he took my hand there was a new closeness. A startling awareness of genuine affection, of openness, of certain future progress to come.

We stopped as usual outside Somerset Heights, and I took out my remote. He asked what my house number was, if he could come in. Even as I told it, I regretted the lie. It all happened so quickly. I was naturally shy with boys, and then being surprised, almost embarrassed, I blurted it out. It should not have happened, but I was suddenly thrust into acute embarrassment. I had led him to assume I lived in the complex. I gave a random number.

“Strange. That is the Simpson home.” Rob frowned, genuinely puzzled.

It seemed that time stood still. Then it just poured out. I shook, sobbing it out, regretting the lies, agony sweeping over me as I realized I had destroyed a friendship. The hidden house, my sensitivity, my embarrassment, my cowardice.

And then he kissed me. 

Dave Barnes

JUNE 2025

Our group decided on a two-fold challenge for June.

Firstly, to write a piece not exceeding 100 words with the title  - Then I walked away.

We chose Sandy Louw’s dramatic piece for sharing.

I SIMPLY HAD TO WALK AWAY

The sense of discomfort that I had been nursing finally came to a head on that fateful Saturday afternoon, the one that should have been one of the happiest of my life.

“Do you take this woman ……”

“No, I can’t do it; I can’t live a lie!” I yelled and turned away.

As I walked down the aisle to the church door, and the freedom that awaited me outside away from this domineering

person I had thought I loved, I realized as I walked away that this was indeed the happiest day of my life!

97 words.

Sandy Louw

Our second challenge was to write a piece with a 1000-word limit inspired by a quote.

“He who knows and knows that he knows, follow him.

And he who knows not and knows not that he knows not, shun him”

We decided that Sharon du Plessis’ piece with its rich descriptions and apt characterization of insatiable greed deserved to be shared.

 A person who knows and knows that she knows, follow her...

I loved fabric since I can remember. Sitting at my grandma's feet while she sewed on her Empisal, radio playing in the background. She knew the little green tin with all the buttons would keep me occupied for hours. I put the colours together, then scrambled them all deurmekaar, and sorted them according to sizes. I made patterns with them, and I practiced counting using groups of the two or four holed buttons. I also had small scissors which she gave me, and a special box with all the material offcuts. Only age 5, I would make-believe sewing, dipping the 'needle' through the materials, diving in and out like the dolphins I saw at the aquarium. I had a doll with a soft fabric body. A lot of 'designs' were draped around her.

Those early years at my grandma's feet became fond memories, and I cherished the button box I still have today. I also believed my talent with material and design stemmed from her, and oh, what a gift!

I would touch, stroke and smell every piece of fabric I came across...

The sensuality of velvet, its folds dramatic and rich, the marvellous softness of it. Royal blues and purples, the warmth and profound colours whispered wealth and well-being, and then the underside, surprisingly cold, flat, and nondescript.

Corduroy, the same two-sided cloth, but with grooves.

The sunny smell of linen, Light, absorbent, with a speedy crease and a devil to iron.

Crimplene of the sixties, wrinkle free but oh so dull, Trilobal of the seventies, a stretchy revealer of every bump and valley on the body. Wool, rich and warm, smelling of the Karoo. Denim, so easy to work with. Satin... slippery little so and so, but oh what a delight to sleep on... and in.

I knew fabric!

I started out as a seamstress. My landlady's little organic shop had a settee that needed upholstery, and I was 'commissioned' to do so. I was paid little enough so that if it failed, I would not feel too bad, and if it succeeded it would be advertisement and a boost for my career. Nothing to lose!  In hindsight I know the couple felt sorry for me as I was young and poor, and with my normal gusto and trust that all will turn out well in the end, I attempted it.

It was a huge success and featured in many magazines, contributing to their business, and became known as the 'settee-art gallery'.

My career progressed and I diverted into clothing design, which I loved. I became quite well-known and later years young designers would seek my advice, because they knew that I was knowledgeable and had a unique signature to this art form. I also did upholstery on the side every now and then, always amazed the way fabric softened and shaped furniture into a rounded voluptuousness that invited the weary art observer to sit down.

Ahhh... they would say and settle back with a smile.

A person who knows not and knows not that he knows not. Shun him.

A week ago, a wealthy client visited my ex-landlord’s gallery. He admired the settee. Do they have contact with the person who 'made a bespoke work of art out of furniture?'.

They gave him my number, and he phoned me, right there and then in the gallery, sitting on that exact sofa!

Excited for the opportunity I agreed and proceeded with the quote.

The AA rate per km, for the long-distance travel. My estimated hourly rate minus a small discount, (opportunity overriding value). I gathered material samples and researched pricing and then completed the quote by building a little model of the divan similar to the photo he sent me, upholstered. I emailed the quote and a photo of the model. He replied that the material was the perfect choice, and could we meet two days later to finalise the project?

Arriving at the estate, the butler let me in, and with a low bow and outstretched hand showed me the way to a small lounge. “Just a moment madam, please be seated...”. He slipped away soundlessly and swiftly returned, presenting me with a silver tray, on which a flute of champaign and canapés were stylishly presented. “Mr. Barnard will be with you in a minute. He is busy on the line with an overseas client.” I smiled a nod, and he disappeared without sound.

I looked around in awe. The opulence! Bespoke antiques, a tapestry that I knew was worth hundreds of thousands, the Persian carpets, heavy embroidered curtains, a small Pierneef on the wall above the fireplace. Here be wealth! While savouring the expensive champaign and delightful morsels I set up my little presentation.

He walked in 20 minutes later, clothed in a linen suit, the silk tie a stark red like a hot thermometer.

“Welcome dear, I see David has seen to you?”

We made small talk and then he said: “OK. Let's get down to business. I have admired Ana's settee for years now and am so delighted to meet you face to face. There is however one little detail I would like to discuss regarding the quote.”

“Of course, Mr. Barnard, how can I assist?”

“Well, I would love you to do this project, but I think your quote is a bit high. Could you possibly cut it by a third?”

I looked at him incredulously, stood up, gathered my bag, the box with fabric samples and scooped up the settee model.

“Mr. Barnard...”, I smiled, “...find someone stupid. Good bye!”

He stood there, mouth gaping, not uttering a sound.

The butler appeared as from nowhere to escort me out. As he opened the front door, he winked at me and whispered. “Well shunned Miss du Plessis!”

Sharon du Plessis

MAY 2025

THE MATCHBOX

Damien Kinghorn was restless.   He needed something to occupy his mind and to fill those moments when time hung heavy on his hands, which for some reason seemed to be the case increasingly frequent of late.  But what to do.?  NO, NOT GARDENING.  That domain belonged to his dear wife, Penelope and to their faithful and trusted gardener, Misheck.  Besides he found the physical activity in the gym, three days a week quite enough. Something a trifle more sedentary would suit him very well thank you!

As a young boy he had tried stamp collecting which had held his interest for quite some time; helped by the fact that he had a large extended family with many friends overseas. He could rely on them for a steady stream of contributions to fill his albums.  Philately had held his interest for several years – or until, as a healthy teenager he found the pursuit and company of pretty young girls far more interesting.  Being a normal young lad the albums were soon relegated to dark and dusty cupboards.

Confronted now with the need to find something, his mind returned to philately which had held his interest as long as it did because of the involvement of family and friends…….That element no longer existed so what to do now?  And that was when Damien Kinghorn had his Eureka moment….The answer to his problem lay in another cupboard.

Damien’s work involved engaging with suppliers across the world and this at a time when cigarette smoking was less frowned upon than is the case today.  And, of course safety matches were readily available at hospitality institutions worldwide.  Restaurants, Dining Establishments, Hotels and Pensiones, Bars and Coffee Houses all featured their Logo on a box or a fold-over cover promoting themselves.  Even airlines offered them for the convenience of their passengers. Damien freely picked up handfuls of them to take home as souvenirs.  They mostly ended up in a large box in the

seldom visited cupboard.  They numbered hundreds, even thousands.

Damien’s match had been struck.  He would become a Phillumenist!  The pursuit of which would bring him into contact with interesting people spread far and wide.

He set about registering with the “British Match Box labels and Book Match Society” and also contacted the Lion Match Company in South Africa who put him in touch with the “Bob Shop” who dealt in rare and sought after labels and Book Match covers.  Damien’s interest was launched, and his enthusiasm and dedication were limitless.

However, there was a downside to things which he had not given any thought to.  While he had found his 24/7 interest, Penelope had lost her husband.  Her feelings of neglect intensified in direct proportion to Damien’s pursuit of his interest in Phillumenist and, as Penelopeput it mildly His “bloody match boxes”. On a number of occasions, she had told him of her feelings but felt it was like talking to a brick wall.

It was one of those days when Damien was out of the house on a “social meeting” with hiss Phillumenist friends and

Penelope was stewing with anger at home.  So much so that she lost control of her actions.  Storming upstairs to his study, black plastic bag in hand.  She viciously gathered all the labels together, swept them into the bag which she then dragged downstairs and out into the garden.  She struggled under the weight of it but managed to lift it onto the

brick-built barbecue.

Dowsing it with a little paraffin she used one of Damien’s precious matches to ignite it and stood far back to witness the resultant inferno.

For sure! He would be furious when he came home…. Outrageously so.  But Penelope felt secure in their long and

loving relationship and knew how to handle that.  A short ,sharp ,shouting match was preferable to a life long pursuit of some silly match box.

Dudley Barnes

A BOX OF MATCHES

Rudyaner, now 29, has not grown in kindness, honesty and compassion like his father Vladimir. Taking over his father's business and two estates, his dealings have been underhanded and corrupt, his daily involvement fuelled by his greed for more, no matter the cost. To add insult to injury, he became vindictive to the loyal workers that laboured for his father for over 40 years, dismissing them at the slightest suspicion of threat to his command.

Vladimir was a kind man. I served him for many years as his manservant, which may sound demeaning, but I honoured my position with loyalty. He saved me from the streets as a young boy, educated me and instilled in me the honourable integrity he possessed. I respected him as a mentor, businessman and father figure.

Vladimir thought the trip to the Shamans of the North-East would bring Rudyaner to new insights, a change of course for the better, and a chance to bond with his son. But to no avail. Speaking quietly in the sacred hut, the Shaman explained in a soft sympathetic murmur that his son has wandered too far into the underworld, there was no return. Vladimir was devastated when he confided in me, and I could feel the sombre cloud shrouding his shoulders and slowing his normal lightness of foot.

Winter was due in a few weeks but we were caught by an unexpected snow storm returning home. The winds howled in unison with the melancholy drudge on our way back to the meeting point on the other side of the Sobledski Mountains at lake Barkal, where the Siberian railway ended.

Vladimir was the only one on horseback. Although in good shape, he was much older than the rest of us, including the 2 packers walking ahead of us. With the loads of provision on their backs whitened by the snow, the carriers knew the mountains well and were as tough as nails. The gateway through the Sobledski Mountains was snowed in, the ravine's cobbled stones wet and slippery under the snow. We were all alert and quiet, stepping carefully, securing each foothold.

Suddenly the silence was disturbed by the sound of twigs snapping, ringing out like gunshots. A deafening roar of beast and screams of men rose above the chaos of blood and shrieks of pain.

The bear ripped the two bearers to pieces, food and water scattered in all directions. I pulled out my gun and managed to shoot the bear right behind the ear. It dropped like a bag of bricks. The horse bolted and twisted Vladimir's ankle.

We stood bewildered and still for a moment, frozen in time. Most of our food tumbled down the ravine, buried under the snow between slippery boulders. The two packers were unrecognisable, still, as the snow flaked and covered red streaks like a white hand, wiping away any sign of life.

After we gathered our wits we took stock of what was left, and we were dismayed that most of the provisions were lost. Setting up camp nearby, I built 2 shelters for the 3 of us and the horse, and settled in for the night with a small fire hissing. We dozed off fitfully in the cold, utterly spent.

Daybreak.

It was quiet.

I could see the sunlight shafting between the twigs of the shelter. The spot between myself and my master was strangely empty. I got up and walked outside. The horse was gone, as was the little heap of our left-over provisions. I immediately understood that Rudyaner has left, taking everything with him, no concern for his father, let alone me. I entered the shelter and saw Vladimir's face.

He understood.

Amid unspoken words we checked to see the level of peril we were in. All I had on me was the rifle with one bullet left, a hunting knife, a metal tin and the box of matches. Vladimir had a little pocket book and pencil, and a key around his neck.

I told him I would go and find help, and gave him the knife.

“With this you can cut pieces of meat from the bear, and stay alive.”

I handed him the tin.

“With this, sir, you can melt ice and drink it to quench your thirst.”

Finally, I gave him the box of matches...

“And with this, my master, you can light a fire to cook, melt the ice and stay warm.

You have enough matchsticks for forty days at least, use it sparingly.”

He looked at me in wonder, realising that I gave him my everything, my life, so that he may have his.

He took the notebook out and wrote, filling a few pages. He tore them out, folded them, and put them in my top pocket. “This, Michael, you must give to my lawyer. Come back and save me so that we can spend the rest of our days in comfort.  You are my son now. I have no other. Here is my ring, show it to my lawyer as proof of the note. And here is the only key to my safe, guard it well.”

I spent the rest of the day securing his shelter, chopping more wood and stashing it in the horse's shelter, making him as comfortable as possible. The bearskin was hung, the smoke would soon cure it to be used for warmth.

And with a fur jacket, a few cuts of bear meat, his spare woollen boots and my rifle I left at daybreak the next morning, with a fire burning intensely within me to return with help to get him out of this freezing hell. The ring on my finger and the key in my pocket, I had all I needed to survive and return.

It took me 8 days to reach the top of the ravine. I never thought I would be able to endure such hardships, the bone cold, the hunger and that constant thirst. I was just about to give up when I stumbled on the remains of his son and spilled provisions, the work of another bear. I thanked the Gods for the good luck yet felt saddened that his son came to this end. I shrugged off the subtle feeling of justification that he got his just deserves. Camping for the night, I found a dry box of matches, and recouped my energy.

I reached home four days later. Entering the estate's castle, ignoring the enquiring stares, I contacted the lawyer immediately, found a willing helicopter pilot that would take a risk, replenished myself well and slept a day and a night. The pilot's schedule flight was the next day thanks to a safe window in the foul weather.

When I woke up the haste to return to my master drove me to hastily pack provisions and medical aids, warm clothes but alas, somehow I've lost the key to the safe! How was I going to pay the pilot the handsome cash amount I promised?!

I then recalled as a young boy how my mafia father taught me to open a lock with a box of matches. I scraped the sulfate off all the matches bar one, stuffed it in the keyhole, then stuck the leftover matchstick end into the key hole, lit it and turned away to escape the direct blast of the small explosion.

A powerful 'Woof'!' and the lock shot open. I counted out the wad of money that would make any pilot happy.

Four hours later we landed at the bottom of the ravine. I rushed to the shelter.

He was alive, yet barely. We took him home, and I nursed him back to health. Three of his toes had succumbed to frostbite, but he was alive and soon the flicker in his eyes returned. A hint of sadness stayed behind reminding him of a son he'd lost, yet he regained his strength and started to restore his business to its original state.

Loyalty, trust and honest abundance for all.

And I, Michael, a humble manservant, heir to millions, have gained a father. In my possession now lay acres of land, a matchstick factory and a castle where our companionship was comfortable and warm.

And it all started, and ended, with a box of matches.

Sharon du Plessis

APRIL 2025

Tail feathers

At first light of dawn just as the sky is tinged with pink across the mountain tops and the dew begins to glisten in the first rays he is up and ready, alert and on the move. Ready to take on every comer in defence of his one – or two or three – true loves.

He looks quickly around to see if there are any intruders, anyone vying for the attention of his beauties. Ah yes, you can't be too careful. He can see his chief rival staring at him from the huge glass windows reflecting out onto the garden. Even at this hour he is there, watching and waiting, just looking for his opportunity. But he hasn't counted on the determination and love, to the extent of desperation, of this one bold creature.

Look again. The intruder looks back, bold as brass. The cocky way he holds his head, his chest snowy white and crisp, the bright black shoulders handsomely displayed and the sleek sides at just the right angle to show off the bright red beak. Oh, and those majestic tail feathers, long, dark black and green, iridescent in the bright early light, sweeping down behind him. What a sight, but not someone to be played with. A true foe and  rival for the favours of the females.

But not these. Oh no, he is not getting his trailing feathers on these. Whydah takes a quick sip from the clear pond, then lifts his head. If it's war the intruder wants, it is war he will get. With a flamboyant little flirt he sends the females into a flurry then, tail feathers flying, he launches himself into the attack. Full speed, red beak angled straight ahead, nothing else in mind he flies straight and true and smack, lands a huge hit right on his foe's face. There, take that, and that. Again and again he flies, screaming and streamlined as a rocket, at the determined foe whose face keeps coming back, closer and closer, just as determined, just as besotted and trying always to free himself so that he can get to those wanton women.

In between the ongoing skirmishes and more violent attacks Whydah rushes back to his harem of twittering ladies, preens himself and offers his favours to each in turn, though it must be said they fly off with much giggling and protestations, making him chase and flutter and prance to try and impress. Then, just as he thinks he is in with a chance he glances up and there, looking back at him, is this plumed intruder. Just staring back, just waiting. So it is off to war once more.

And so it goes from first light to the last moment of the dying day with no let up, no respite for the one in love. 

Until one day, in a frenzy of hate against this handsome foe, he take the plunge and dives, right inside his den, down through the deceptive glass and into his home. Ah, at last he is gone. Vanquished. But instead he has cast an evil spell, catching Whydah in a glass cage, unable to move beyond feeble flutterings against the impenetrable barrier. Try as he might, until exhausted he sits there, whispering despairingly to his loved ones, free and unaware, happily playing around the fountain. Then, suddenly, the hand of god comes to his rescue, lifts him bodily and releases him from his prison. Out, out into the fresh air, back to his harem – but short of one enormous trophy, a precious long glistening tail feather.

"Look my love. A Valentine's gift for you."

Jonathan held out the beautiful feather, glowing and sleek.

She took it, brushing it gently across her cheek.

"Oh Jonathan, it's beautiful, what a wonderful idea, how did you manage to find it. Thank you, darling. I love you."

Pixie Emslie

First love

Sam Venables was a project manager, a specialist. He had chalked up an enviable reputation over a career of more than thirty years, delivering massive projects. His projects were always on time, under budget, with few teething problems which were quickly solved during commissioning. Most people called him gifted, a genius.

 Not Sam. A stutterer, pitifully shy, altogether introverted, he did not like talking. He knew that his results were from painstaking research, critical attention to detail, and a careful and thorough analysis of what he called critical paths and timelines. He focused on critical items, always ensuring that they were available to be installed on time. For any project Sam would do a detailed thorough analysis. An analysis of everything required, and when. Right down to bolts and nuts. How many stainless bolts of a certain size, when they were needed, how long an advance order before installation, how long a delivery. He isolated items to be imported, checked on the reliability of the supplier, leaving nothing to chance. Then he put it all together, all in clear order, a consummate and detailed plan, with a schedule. And Sam checked everything. If there was a delay due to the weather or something unforeseen, he would re-do his copious schedules. Everything was handwritten on huge sheets of paper held by magnets to galvanized metal frames arranged along the walls of a shed. He often slept there, just a few hours at a time.

Sam only used computers for his planning and research. Everything on his final schedule was handwritten in clear precise writing. He used a sophisticated wide angle digital camera to capture the details of his exhaustive plans spread across the walls. The photographs were reduced to pages, bound to volumes. The plan and schedule for Exxon oil expansion, printed out, was seven thousand pages.

Sam had grown wealthy. At first, he charged an hourly rate, but this did not work well when his hours were questioned. Sam hated being questioned. Later, as his fame grew, he would look carefully at the client’s approved budget, verify it, then propose that he be paid twenty percent of what he could save. On the Exxon project Sam netted seven million dollars, and Exxon were happy to pay him more.   

Sam had not worked for more than two years. He was always totally exhausted, utterly spent after a project, and always took a long break. He would go to his mountain hut, as he called it, and spend much time sitting on his veranda, staring at the Drakensberg, and walking in the foothills. It always rejuvenated him, but more slowly as time went on. 

After his last project he seemed to have even less energy. He travelled for a short time, visiting his ancestral Scotland, loving the old hotel and the walks in the hills. But always there was the longing for the sun in the south, for his simple cottage below the great mountains, for his lazy coffee mornings in the sun on the veranda. He was never lonely. He had never been lonely, even though he seldom saw people, and his last cousin, the only surviving member of both his male and female lines had passed on a year before. 

Sam knew that he was regarded as a curiosity. It did not bother him. He spoke little, and to hardly anyone in the village of Bergville on his monthly visits. His usual carefully planned stock of groceries, fuel for his Toyota truck, refilling gas bottles took less than two hours.

Then his life changed. He was on a usual early morning walk in the foothills above his cottage when he heard a whimper. He knew that it came from over the small rise ahead of him and quickened his pace.

She was lying on her side, holding her ankle. She rolled, alarmed at seeing him, stunning green eyes widening in fright. Sam noted that her ankle was broken. He stammered, stunned by her beauty, her perfect form, her lovely tear smudged face, bits of grass in her hair. She, silent in pain, did not object when he lifted her up, biting her lip. He, grunting without words, caringly carried her to his cottage. Sam, silent, focused, researched ankle injuries then carefully and meticulously straightened and splinted the ankle. She grimaced in silence, then smiled. It was a smile that elicited an overwhelming tenderness in him. He bent and held her. She ran a hand over his head, tugging at his hair. 

He discovered that she, too, was a chronic stutterer. Alone, severely depressed, she was on a mission to jump from a cliff to put an end to her life, an end to deep, acute melancholy. 

It was first love for them both. 

Dave Barnes 

MARCH 2025

Here are two pieces of writing from our group. The subject was The photograph, with a limit of 800 words. We chose the poem by Sharon du Plessis and the writing by Dudley Barnes for the newsletter.

The photograph

This old ruin you see

Becomes what I would like to be

A temple of Grace….

That dwells within my space.

This old ruin you see

With cracked windows in the walls;

Where portals of light…

Shine brightly in this night.

This old ruin you see

Water leaking through the roof,

Every drop erodes

The fire of my youth.

This old ruin you see

Foundations slowly moving

My balance up and down

A foothold grip I’m losing.

This old ruin you see

Foundations slowly moving

My balance up and down

A foothold grip I’m losing.

This old ruin you see

Unsteady walls about to fall;

Blood sweat and tears in vain….

Meant nothing after all.

This old ruin you see

Tumbled down, the broken rubble

Now obscures my way

Yet…despite it all… I want to stay.

This old ruin you see

Resilient, strong like me!

See it rise again, restored,

To the beauty…

I now see in me.

Sharon du Plessis

The Photograph

The photograph hung, somewhat inconspicuously, in the small hallway of the cottage of Joan and Arthur in Bourton-on-Water in the Cotswolds.  Half hidden, behind the front door, it was rarely noticed when friends or visitors called.  Joan’s Grandmother had given it to her as a young girl with instructions to look after it as she believed it would be quite “valuable in time”. 

And, in turn Joan had inherited the cottage from her mother and she and her husband, Arthur had lived in it for all their happy and childless life together. Whenever the photograph was mentioned, it would give rise to a discussion about its value. He being assertive that it should be demoted to the trash can and she holding fast to the conviction that it would, at some point, prove to be “quite valuable”.  And so, they continued, quite happy in their different opinions.

That is to say; until Joan heard that the Antiques Road Show would be coming to Bourton in a few months’ time, enough time to rummage through storage lofts, garages, old cupboards that had not been visited for years. Indeed, anywhere that looked like a possible storage space for hidden treasures. For Joan it meant only one thing…. the photograph and a chance to justify her unerring faith in its value.

Her problem now was how to occupy herself for the next two months when her mind carried only one thought in its’ wakIng hours….the photograph! She would certainly take it down and give it a good cleaning.  But oh no…. not that.  If it is valuable, then attempting to clean it might harm it…damage the surface in some way.  No…no…not that…N0 cleaning!  Maybe just a light dusting of the frame with a soft brush

And so, the days dragged by with Joans’ impatience tempered by her rising excitement and heightened expectations. 

And finally, the day dawned.  The Antiques Road Show had been set up in the beautiful gardens of the large Manor House in the heart of Bourton-on-Water and everything was ready to roll!

Joan arrived at the venue, photograph tucked firmly under her arm and made her way to the reception table where her treasure was inspected, and she was directed to an area marked “PAINTINGS, PHOTOGRAPHS AND PRINTS” where a fairly lengthy queue had already assembled. She was unfazed by the length of the waiting line.  Her only emotion now was one of excitement. Inch by inch she finally reached the table and Mr Art Expert who was going to make her day.  

He gently took the photograph from her with a kindly “Well lets’ see what we have here”.  He carefully examined the portrait, back and front, his actions accompanied by approving grunts which were enough to send Joans’ pulse racing. 

 “Tell me what you know about it”.

“Well very little really.  My grandmother gave it me when I was a young girl…. a long time ago and she got it from her grandmother who, we were told, worked for a very grand lady in a grand house when she was young…. as a lady in waiting or something”

“So”, said Mr Art Expert “all starts to fall into place.  “This is an early DAGUERREO type photograph - 1835 to 1845 and this note on the back tells us that 6 copies were made.  Each copy involved a very difficult process on each silvered, copper plate, thus requiring great care, complicated and very costly.  Only the very wealthy could afford it.  

Then if we look carefully at the back, we can find a little slip pouch inside of which inside of which is a card inscribed. “Lady Sarah Lawson.  Wife of the 6th Earl of Danford. 1839”.  So there you have it.  An early silvered copper plate photograph of what we today would call a celebrity and very wealthy. It is in very good condition and would easily fetch  2000 pounds on auction.

Joan could hardly believe what she was hearing.  “Good Lord, Oh Heavens”!!!  I’ve been right all these years!  Can’t wait to tell Arthur”.

Of course, Arthur was his usual disinterested self.  “Oh, that’s good “he muttered. “It will go nicely towards the new Vauxhall I was wanting “ Actually Love” she said with a bit of a chuckle. “It has always been my Photograph so it will be my money.  Tell you what though, I will give you 100% of the value that you always placed on the picture”. 

With a smile she replaced the photograph where it was accustomed to hang.

760 words

Dave Barnes

FEBRUARY 2025

We had an assignment to write a piece not exceeding 800 words with the title "Two kids in a maizefield."

Our group chose this one:

                  Harry and Sally in a maizefield

This is our special place, Harry. No one will find us here. The mealies are tall now, Harry. And we only need to be back to the house before dark. So, I can tell you my secrets, Harry, cos you can’t talk. And if you can’t talk, you can’t tell.

So, my secrets are safe, Harry, cos you can’t talk. You must learn to talk, cos you are four years old, Harry. You can only say Thally, you say it funny, not proper, not proper Sally. You must learn more words and learn to talk. But I don’t mind if you can’t say my name right. And I don’t get cross and sad like mommy. Mommy cries when you sit and hold your blanket and suck your thumb, and she takes your thumb out your mouth, and asks you to say mommy, and you say Thally. 

Yes, Harry. I like it when you smile, Harry. I know you think you can say Sally, but you say it funny. And I like it when you smile, Harry, but take your thumb out of your mouth.

So, my secret, Harry. So, you don’t know what happened last night cos you were sleeping. I was still awake, and mommy shouted very loud at daddy. It was very loud, but you did not wake up, Harry. And mommy shouted that daddy must get out. And I got up and I hid at the passage door and daddy said he will go to the attic. And mommy said no he must get lost, and I got a fright, and I bit my lip cos I was going to cry cos mommy always says we must not get lost, and she was shouting and telling daddy to get lost. And daddy did not say anything, and he went outside and slammed the door. And I was so frightened, I ran to my room and got out of the window. I am not allowed to get out the window any more, and daddy put a nail in, so it won’t go up. It is my secret, but I took the nail out, cos what if there is a fire like at Uncle Bert’s and I can’t get out, then I can burn up like Katy did. 

So, I got the pliers and a screwdriver, and I got the nail out. But I didn’t want mommy or daddy to see, so I put a thinner nail in. Now it looks like there is a nail in, but I can pull it out quick, real quick, just with my nail. So, I opened the window, then I got out, then I closed the window very quiet. I went round the side, cos I heard daddy walking on the gravel. Daddy was coming out the stables, and daddy had a horse blanket. Shame, so daddy only had a horse blanket to keep warm. So, I saw him go up the stairs to the attic on top of the stables and I sat there till he was inside, and I was so glad he was not lost. Then I wondered how is daddy going to sleep with no jarmies? 

Then I was cold, and I opened my window and climbed inside and put the thin nail back. Then I heard mommy on the phone, and then I crept back to the passage. And mommy was talking to granny. I know because mommy calls granny mom. And mommy was crying. And mommy said daddy must go away and she does not want to see him again. Mommy said daddy is a pig and a sheet. And I do not understand. And daddy is not a pig and not a sheet. 

And mommy said daddy sheeted with Francis and Francis is not going to be our nanny any more. And I don’t know how daddy sheeted with Francis, and I can’t ask mommy, and I can’t ask daddy. And you can’t even talk, so you do not know what sheet is. And I can’t ask Francis cos mommy told granny Francis will never come to our house again, ever, ever again. And daddy eats nicely, like mommy, so I don’t know why mommy says he is a pig. Maybe pigs sheet.

So, Harry it is getting late now, you are getting sleepy, and I can’t carry you a long way. We must go back to the house. Careful, don’t trip over your blanket, Harry. 

Dave Barnes 749 words

JANUARY 2025

Here is a piece written by Sharon du Plessis. The limit was 500 words, and Sharon did herself proud to write a lucid and chilling account within that limit.

The Wheel 

 The room was ready. Susanna lit an aromatic candle and stepped back. The white sheet and pink towels crisped the room. A tiny spider web on the bottle of sweet almond oil slurped daintily when she distractedly flicked it away with the match.

“Well Susanna, your first Swedish massage customer,” she thought out loud. Forty minutes left!

She sped to the shower, clothes off her happy body. The lather of the soap and the excitement bubbled on her skin, and Susanna, (always trying), sang a song about sunshine, the new words picked from everyday life and gladness. Af-ter a rough rubdown she quickly dressed, covering herself with a new black t-shirt, and a pair of palazzo pants.

Bending down, hairdryer droning in her ears, she thought how her life has changed for the better at last. After that black night when he, stranger, entered her room, and took her being, her body... she thought she could never let the pain go. The pain of anger and emptiness, the struggle to be alone but not wanting solitude, the panic trips when leaving home just to return to sleepless nights. To top is all, she did not even know who he was, what he looked like. The only thing he left behind was a clutch of hair during their struggle.

 All that was eventually soothed when her childhood friend Dan finally convinced her to do a course in massage. “Just to give and receive again. You’re dying!” 

Susanna listened.

 Oh it was hard at first. But touching and being touched released all those black demons. After the course, (she did well), friends and family queued up for a freebie.

Then finally, she was ready to advertise. It has taken two years to get to this point, she thought.

At first she was a bit nervous, massaging his huge, strange body clad in PT-shorts. But eventually the movements flowed. She felt confident. “You can turn over now”, she calmly said.

The missing nipple…

 Wanting to scream a pure sound of terror, wanting to run, wanting to hurt him with all the hurt she endured, Susanna just stared and stared. Trance-like she placed her hands on his shoulders. Slow, strong movements…

 “Thank you so much. I feel so relaxed. Running really takes it out of me,” he said handing over the money.

“Yes. Tell me, your nipple…?” She faltered…

“Oh that, yes. It’s a family thing.”

“A family thing?”

“Ja, my brother was born with the same ‘ailment’. Missing on the left side. In fact, he lives in your complex, number 36.”

“Oh…well… bye, and good luck with the Comrades,” she said, almost happy.

She closed the door, turned around and thought, “Susanna, you’re strong, a survivor. The wheel turns!”

 “Investigating Officer Dan Boshoff please”

“Going through…”

AUGUST 2024

Haiku is originally a three line Japanese poem. It can vary in the number of syllables and styles, but the classic

structure is a 5/7/5 syllable format, which is what Sharon used.

Haiku is now written in most languages, world wide. The syllables of necessity must vary due to the wide variety of

language structures.

The theme this month was TREES

Haiku by Sharon du Plessis

Trees.

Precarious bird,

perched on a tree's thinnest twig...

Snap!

Wind or wing t'was?

Bark up the wrong tree

no matter season or time...

makes a rootless trunk.

Gusts of forest winds

sway and pendulate tall trees

Singing leafy rhymes...

I'm tall as a tree.

Leave me unruffled by winds.

My roots are ancient.  

My family tree...

On one of the branches be

the twig that is me.

Anchored one-leggeds,

these old men of the forest

reaching for the skies.