Creative Writing 2

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

JUNE 2026

SHOES

By Aletta van der Watt

You would think that having been in a high school class with 24 Jewish girls for five years in the early 1960s, I would have internalised the horrors, tragedies and enormous generational loss caused by Hitler's Nazi Germany just two

decades earlier. 

And yet it wasn't until, after a 2006 conference in Berlin, that it truly began to haunt me. I spent a day alone in the Jewish museum where Jewish persecution is documented as far back as the 7th Century AD. After prowling through the

pre-holocaust section of the museum, I came upon a sloping ramp with deep displays behind glass at each well-lit

window. At one window there were hundreds of thousands of remarkably small, wire-rimmed spectacles, then at the next, hundreds of thousands of books, small leather-covered books, thumbed and thumbed and thumbed again, of

tissue-thin pages and tiny print. 

And then there was the window showing shoes, old, worn, down-at-heel, dirty shoes - women's shoes, men’s shoes, all small, and then, and then, and then, the pitifully tiny shoes of children of all sizes from preteens to toddlers. 

I was transfixed.

The lives of these living people, the families of my school friends, were at last made real to me. 

I felt them struggling shell-shocked through endless cattle truck journeys, surviving in freezing, lice-ridden barracks, starving, digging roads or planting potatoes, only to become too weak to work and by then knowing their end, being herded into gas chambers to die naked, pressed up against each other's trembling bodies while poison gas fell upon them like a blessing from above. Later acrid, oily smoke would rise into the sky from the crematoria chimneys and their skeletal remains would be tossed into deep pits, sprinkled with lime and left for tomorrow's load of corpses to further fill the pits. And all the while the ever-methodical German clerks would be organising piles of clothes, spectacles, books, shoes. I knew that every 'final solution' inmate had been shaven raw as they entered the camps.

But I was spared a window display of all that hair. The shoes were more than I could take. 

I staggered up the ramp into a crisp spring day where young German children played hide-and-seek in the sunshine among cement sentinels, a vast memorial to all those lost souls, and I thought, this could never happen again.

And yet, will it be one decade or two until our grandchildren will be staring at similar display cases of equally horrific shoes and sandals of the murdered Palestinians who fell victim to their nation's genocide, ironically on display in a

by-then-penitent Israel?

And will it be two decades or three till our great grandchildren are staring at display windows of dirty worn-out leather shoes, high-heeled shoes, sports shoes, sandals, of the millions of disappeared men, women and children who were wrongfully imprisoned and died in for-profit concentration camps all across what was once the mighty United States of America, by then far, far removed from its former status and proudest boast as leader of the free world?

MAY 2026

A tribute to Dave Barnes, the convenor of our Writing Group 2, who passed away on 28th April. Dave loved writing, and he was a published author of short stories and novels and he led the group with a great deal of intellect, kindness and humour.

Sandra Louw, one of the Group’s members, knew David from both their years in the Hiking Club and from their shared love of writing. She wrote the following, in his memory:

To a safe place 

This is what came to me on hearing of Dave’s passing last week, and has stayed with me till now. On examining it closely, I find it is not entirely appropriate to his circumstances, but it keeps popping into my head. So I feel obliged to share it with you. 

When I met Dave 13 years ago, he was strong, full of life. In fact  the first hike we went on here was with him as leader. Looking at the rather old-looking group who were all unknown to me, I thought they would either put their heads down and go like the devil, or it would be a bit of a doddle, and we would look good. We were relatively fit at that time. Unfortunately for us, it was the former. Dave was a strong leader, kept his flock of mixed abilities together and got us all back safely. I still remember their taking a photograph at the start, and when I queried this, was told it was to check no one was missing at the end. Needless to say, being the natural unpushy leader he was, Dave got us all back safely and did not need to check the pic!  

In the last part of his life he was unable to walk across his lawn, let alone go hiking. But, as his daughter said, he never complained, although the courage to face his changed circumstances must have demanded much from him, and showed what made him such a special person. 

But to get closer to the topic, To a Safe Place, or Time Travel. I kept thinking of a poem I loved teaching, especially as it dealt with the feelings of the poet on facing death,  and he was close in age to the matriculants I was teaching. But far removed from Dave in age. 

“I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth” from High Flight by John Gillespie Magee. And all that came into my mind was Dave has slipped the surly bonds of earth, is “flying free”. The physical limitations that hampered him for the last few years have slipped away. He has travelled to a better place in time.  

Swim freely, Dave, fly freely, till Margie joins you one day.  

My prayer for you. 

******

Another member of the Writing Group wrote poem for Dave, using his profound knowledge of the isiXhosa people, and their reverence for the national bird, the blue crane, as its theme.

Ode to the Blue Crane

Far far away

on the top of a hill,

stood silently

a sacred bird...

Majestically still.

While we watch

through the veil of pain,

a warm embracing light,

illuminates your Being,

before the final flight.

Oh Silver Bird

lift now your wings,

soar freely the baby-blue skies,

where its gentleness and colour

is reflected in your eyes.

Fly to the place

called Heaven's Gate,

where Angels sing welcome-hallelujahs

and ancestors await

your triumphant return.

Husband, Father, Friend and Mentor,

the splendour

of the words you wrote and spoke,

now inscribed on the feathered wings

of our hearts for remembrance sake.

Ndiyabulela

Thank You

LalagaHuhle

Rest Well

SiyakuThanda

We love you.

MARCH 2026

The subject for this month was “And then the door closed/opened”. There were a number of stories that went deeply into the tragedies of life – and one that touched us all as it vividly described some of the horrors of Human Trafficking, written by Sharon du Plessis.

DOORS!

The nightly domino sound-effects of the three-beat-heartache song...

A door slammed shut, the metal jingle of a key in the lock, footsteps moving on to the next door...

Slam, jingle, footsteps... Slam, jingle, footsteps...The perpetual melody cranked out the beat of isolation, betrayal and domination... on and on whilst the volume of this sickening tune became more muffled, until, after long minutes, finally died down at the end of this corridor where we all were kept, shut-in for the night.

It was quiet now. The yonder voices of wardens finally ceased.

I am lying on the cold floor, the chill seeping through my skin like a cold corpse lover. A surrender to hell, I lay like many, many nights before, on my hands and knees, spent, violated, sore, soiled and stripped to a nothingness, a meaningless lump of human flesh being used for the gratification of Evil.

I do not remember my real name. 'Bad Girl', they called me, only 4 years old. However, I do remember those men with ragged breaths, their stiff cocks ramming that baby place that was still pudgy and innocent. The women also took part, 

whilst the baby in me so craved the mother with those breasts and erect nipples, just for a moment's reprieve from this hell! But no, lust blinded them all, making me nothing. Making me... Bad Girl.

The 'maternity ward' supervised by the androgynous German induced the fear needed to keep all of us in line. Her stark face, clipped voice and a red lipstick streak that gaped like a knife wound above the white starched uniform echoed control.

I have become part of the breeding plan of the Elite fucks since age 12. Giving birth once a year this human breeding conveyor belt provided the offspring for harvesting stem cells, or for the kick that it gave those in high power to fuck their own offspring, barely a few weeks old, then to be offered to the dark forces...Torn... and barely alive.

I cannot remember their little faces. My heart and what was left of it, broke into a thousand pieces every time the cord was cut and my baby snatched away, dragging my memory and heart scraps with them, to disappear into oblivion.

At barely 20 years old, I don't know the world out there. I have been moulded and poured into this cesspit for the

gratification of those who could afford handsome sums for their perverted sick minds.

Not just me. We are many.

A constant influx of new girls, and boys, of all ages. Terrified, torn away from their families; stolen, captured, trafficked. Here are babies, toddlers, kids, teenagers, young adults, all part of this down-spiral whirlpool of a cesspool, being sucked into the darkness by no choice of our own. The years gone past grated memories like raw skin that never fully healed, until nothing was left except for the unseen scars and bleeding scabs. Was I sold? Neglected? Stolen?

Some of us were forced to attend the sorcery events, once a month during the dark moon, when the world slept silently, and did not know nor cared not. Here the underground bunker hall cloaked in black walls, opulent red velvet curtains, the black candles' yellow flaming tongues licking this wall of darkness. The huge altar in the centre. The quiet entry of the masked men and women who came to witness, and take part, in the raping, torturing and slaughter of these babies, some born days ago. We were not there just to witness but became a side dish feasted on during their despicable acts. The horror of these acts were offered up to conjure and raise the energy of demonic forces.

This night, lying on the cold floor like so many nights before, a thought entered my mind.

I was viewing it quietly, impersonally, and with a calmness. I realised...

I've lost all hope.

I cannot speak of what was done, for the feelings of someone so young never found a sound base of comprehension nor expression...

I just knew...

THIS IS NOT RIGHT!!

Death, oh sweet thing, please come.

***   ***   ***

Not death, but 3 bells marked the beginning of a six hour rest, before the day would start again and the claws of

darkness got hold of us once more. I closed my eyes and prepared for oblivion.

Then, suddenly, muffled voices echoed down the corridor. I lift my head. The voices came closer. Sharp, decisive. Outside, through the small window, a blue light started to flash and pulse a rhythm of redemption on my cell door, the walls, my body...

 “OK, nine more to go! LET'S MOVE LET'S MOVE LET'S MOVE!!”

And then my door opened...

Final Notes.

Human Trafficking is Real. There is a predator in every neighbourhood, school, summer camp, gym hall, religious gathering... the list goes on. The network of syndicates are across our globe.

Statistics on Human Trafficking in South Africa Approximately 155,000 people are living in modern slavery in South

Africa. The majority of trafficking victims are women and children. Over 70% of trafficking victims in South Africa are

 trafficked for sexual exploitation. (ref: TEARS)

Closed Doors: Currently in America. Epstein:

Video footage went 'missing' so there is no proof of his 'suicide'.

What about the 3 million page Epstein documents released (70 - 80% still redacted). Why were the investigations stopped and no accountability enforced years ago?

Open Doors :We can topple this Satanic Hierarchy:

Artist  – Express the visual through art, writing, creative endeavours.

Spiritual Warriors focus on a positive outcomes.

Activists speak up.

Generous funding of projects that assist with the investigation, prevention and release of HT victims.

The Artist gives VISIBILITY, the Spiritual Warrior gives DIRECTION, the Activist on the ground gives VOICE.

The Generous SUPPORT all of the above.

Inspired by the following two channels on YouTube.

1.     IMMEDIATE RELEASE - I Am Being Threatened For Protecting Children.

Shawn Ryan Show.

2.     EPSTEIN FILES – What they're not telling you.

Inspired (Jean Nolan & Cathy O'Brien)

Watch this. See what bravery and healing looks like.

OCTOBER 2025

Our topic was “baking,” or the baker” and three ladies outdid the males. 

Baking the World a Better Place - One Cookie at a Time

By Sandy Louw.

For as long as he could remember, Philip had wanted to be creative, particularly in the kitchen. Even as a small boy, he had loved watching his gran, and later his mom, at work at the big scrubbed farmhouse kitchen table. Never perturbed by the other children calling him names for being attracted to what they regarded as women’s work. To him it was certainly not work; it was an art form. And it gave him great satisfaction once he started playing with left-over bits of dough and creating “things” with it. His gran was called a “bobaas bakster” and he often tried to copy what she was doing. He had decided early on that he was going to go all out to become a top chef, but probably more a baker than a general chef. While Gran specialized in breads, his mom went in for “fyngebak”, and he was pretty good at this too. 

On leaving school, he signed up for courses at the nearby technical college to refine his skills. He flourished there, and on passing with flying colours, was delighted when his beloved gran, who was a wealthy woman in her own right, offered to set him up with a small bakery, since she could see his potential.

Their small rural town needed a decent bakery, and Philip was in the right place at the right time. He found what he regarded as an ideal site, on a corner in the main street with easy parking nearby. Once again, his creativity came to the fore as he fitted out what was to become his personal piece of paradise. He just seemed to know instinctively what was needed, unusual in one so young with no previous business experience. When he had all the necessary equipment, state of the art ovens and display cases, he was almost ready to open to the public. But he needed some assistance, or assistants, and he took great care to choose people who shared his vision. Twin sisters who had been in his college classes, and had proved very talented, were more than delighted to join him. As they were both dark-haired with olive skins, he was inspired to call his bakery The Chocolate Chip House. The two sisters were his chocolate chips! They decided that they were going to make an exciting range of biscuits and cookies, often using chocolate.

They opened for business on a Friday - clever thinking on Philip’s part – end of week, end of month, and end of school term. They were inundated from the time they opened their doors, after spending the two days before opening, filling their display cases. They hadn’t been sure till what time they would keep their bakery open, but the community decided this for them by cleaning out their stock just after lunch.

Philip and his Chocolate Chips spent some of the weekend recovering from the euphoria of opening and selling out in one day, but on the Sunday, they were forced to take a serious look at how they were going to cope in the immediate future.

After a concentrated baking session that stretched into the evening hours, they were ready to face whatever Monday brought their way. 

Although Monday was not as frenetic as Friday, it was busy again, proof that word of mouth is the best advert.

Philip and his Choc Chips, and the other staff they were compelled to employ quite quickly, went from strength to strength, expanding their offering from cookies and biscuits to fancy breads, muffins and rusks. Always super-fresh, and super-delicious.

Popular demand led to their creating a sit-down section, a little coffee shop, so that customers could stay and enjoy their wares with their friends, and then as so often happened, buy a whole lot more of their favourites to take home. 

Although they were working really hard, and very long hours, Philip and the Chips were enjoying their success, and were the talk of the town.

Proof that when you are doing something you love, it does not seem like work. Just pure enjoyment all round! 

Heavenly baking

By Pixie Emsli

‘I must say I agree with my old Gran who always said the closest thing to Heaven is the smell of fresh bread coming out of the oven.’ 

‘That’s so funny because my Mom says cooking is a bit like bringing up a child. It takes time, patience and more wisdom than Solomon – and even then you’d be lucky if it works out to be anywhere near perfect.’

The two young women were concentrating on the mixing bowls in front of them, Sally stirring the base of what she hoped would be the lightest souffle ever while Annie worked methodically on pulling, turning and gently kneading the dough in her bowl. It was part of their precious weekly ritual of spending time together on their shared passion, cooking, though they could not have been further apart in what they loved to create. Sally had been a top chef in a five-star boutique restaurant before she married and had children. She had been famous for her creations of culinary delights, often spending hours just trying to perfect one sauce or a perfect plate of delicate oysters in cream. For Annie life was different, perhaps more practical but just as difficult to accomplish. Her dream to run a small bakery had become a reality and she was still in charge of the exclusive little shop, selling delicious breads and buns, bakes and tarts of every description. They were all based on her own original ideas, using fresh ingredients sourced from the garden or bush. Both of them still loved the camaraderie of their weekly cook-ins and guarded them jealously.

‘Your Mom could be right Sal. Think about it. Here I am with my bread, gently nurturing, moulding and kneading it and then just waiting and watching it rise. That is in a way what we do with our babies. We swaddle them, cuddle them, hold them, hopefully mould them in the right direction with lots of loving attention. And then watch anxiously as they grow.’ 

Still chatting, Annie gently slid her loaves into the oven.

‘Ya, and then we spend years trying to teach them. It’s a bit like the years we spend learning the art of cooking, practising, having flops and a few triumphs, all the while trying to make the perfect meal. Isn’t that exactly what kids are like, learning about life, learning the rules so that one day they can break them in their efforts to reach for the stars, maybe to reach greatness, or just to be a decent person.’

‘Yes. But you only need one bad egg to ruin the lot. You know how just a bit too much salt can spoil a dish or worse, just one wrong step can make a whole cake flop.’

‘Well not always. If you’ve got the basics right you would soon get that bad egg out of the mix. It does make one think though, how hard we try to shield our kids from the rotten eggs at school, in society, in social media, on line. Everywhere around us there are bad eggs – bad people just waiting to catch us out.’

‘I don’t know. Look at me, testing, tasting, trying new ideas, new combinations of flavours, new ways of presenting the time-honoured old masters’ creations. Our kids are not much different. When they’re growing up they also are constantly pulling against the traces, trying to do things their way rather than trusting what we think of as time-honoured tradition. It’s a good thing though. Can you imagine how dull they would be if they did things the same way we did, and our folks did and our grandparents. Thank goodness we, and they, keep experimenting, trying new ways of achieving perfection.’

Their chatter was interrupted by the loud sound of kids rushing in, school bags, books, jackets and tennis rackets chaotically filling the happy space, and everyone talking at once.

‘Hi Mom, What’s cooking?’

‘Mmm smells good.’

‘A hello Mom and maybe a kiss might be an idea.’

‘Ah Ma.’ They all laughed at the old ritual.

‘I promise I’ll give you a hug and maybe even a kiss if you give me some of whatever it is that’s cooking. I’m starving.’

‘Ya, me too. And I can tell you Aunt Annie that whatever it is in that oven. It smells just heavenly.’ 

The King's Baker:  by Sharon du Plessis

Azriel bowed when he entered the king's court in Mitzrayim, Egypt. The tray he carried was loaded with bread. White buns, round seed breads, a few square flatbreads, even an array of honey balls added for presentation affect. He gently placed the tray down on the huge table, laden with other foods for the feast of the Osiris Sun festival.

It had been a year now and he loved this service he was chosen for. To bake for the king! All his efforts were appreciated, and Azriel beamed every time he got good word from the king's head butler.

“The king wishes me to convey his gratitude for your service.”

Azriel beamed every time.

He was very proud of his baking skills, and the variety of breads he presented was not to be found anywhere else in Egypt. Like every orthodox Jewish baker, he made sure to roll a small ball of dough, to throw in the back of the earthen oven to burn. It was a tithe of gratitude.

This gratitude and happiness ended on the day he accidentally served it on the platter, hidden under a honey roll. After the butler spilled wine over the queen’s lap, they were both thrown into the holding cell. (A piece of black burnt crust that was offered the king would shake anyone's hand).

Yosuf, a foreigner who had been captured and shared the cell, was told to take care of them whilst they waited for the final word from the king. It was 3 days before Faro's birthday, and everybody was immersed in the preparations, the palace a beehive of activity.

That night both Azriel and the butler each had a dream, which was interpreted by Yosuf the following day. The butler would serve the king on his birthday in 3 days' time, and Azriel was to be be-headed!

Azriel's gut feel about Yosuf's dream interpretation felt true. He did not want to die a shameful death for a bizarre mishap, and he decided to take matters in his own hands. Although jailed, he was allowed to see his wife, and she brought him the 'medicine' he needed to leave this plane with dignity. 

Yosuf found him lying on the cell floor, eyes rolled back, no pulse or heart beat. He felt a surge of guilt for conveying the outcome of the dream's meaning. He touched the baker's body and prayed to God to bring him back to life. 

A huge inhale and Azriel was back! He looked confused and muttered...”I have seen my ancestors, and I have been in heaven!!” 

Yosuf was taken aback. “Please tell me so that I know if this is the heaven of the God I serve?”

“When I took the sleep medicine, I had terrible stomach cramps, then blacked out. The next moment I was floating above my body, not realising it was mine...”

He paused for a moment, his eyes huge with wonder and astonishment. 

“I looked around and wondered what was happening, it felt so surreal. The next moment I was whisked about 800 Ell above ground, I could see the prison tents, people, like ants hurrying around, the castle roof just below me...”

He shook his head in wonder...

“Then I shot up again and could now see the country side, the pyramids, the Nile, and then everything went dark. 

I was not scared, I felt absolute bliss and peace and was utterly engulfed in a belongingness of love and acceptance. A small light appeared, and as it approached, the darkness left. 

Three glowing figures approached me. When they got closer, I saw my father, my mother and grandfather. They looked like light beings, and I just knew it was them. How, I still cannot explain. We communicated with our thoughts. I was so happy to see them!

Then a few angels appeared, and they were moving around me, as if cleansing me from the heavy earthly dense matter, removing debris, pain, trauma. I felt wonderful and in such bliss. It is then that I realised that I had died.

We were walking, or was it floating, through the most beautiful meadows. The flowers and the colour of the sky took my breath away. I cannot show you the colours because I have never seen it!”

He stopped for a moment, a tear running down his cheek.

“There were children playing under the trees, laughter filled the air as we moved along, or was it floating?” His hands lifted as a gesture of an unanswerable question.

“The next moment I was standing in front of a panel of, what seemed to be elders, or judges. They looked at me with such love, I had no fear.

My whole life was played out in front of me as I watched, a mere bystander. I could see the people I hurt, I could feel their pain and disappointment, and my heart almost broke. Never did I realise how powerful words were, causing that result. But I did not feel judged. For they also showed me the good things that I did and the ripple effect of those, and then, the most beautiful message came that God honoured the way I paid my challah with everything I baked. 

Then the elder in the centre of the panel spoke to me. He told me my time is not yet to come, for I have to convey a message to Yosuf first.” 

He looked at Yosuf and smiled.

“Even though in two days during the king's birthday, I will be beheaded, I have no fear, for I have seen Heaven!

So Yosuf, I am alive to bring you this message:”

Azriel took a deep breath and said:

“You will stay here as a captured slave, for another two years. The butler you asked to speak on your behalf will forget about you. At the end of this period the king will have a dream, and here is the dream and the layout to that dream as told to me by the head angel... Follow this and you will be set free.

The King will dream of 7 fat cows rising up from the Nile...”

SEPTEMBER 2025

Die Ashoop. 

Daar is 'n plek geleë 

aan die verre westekant 

van die hemel. 

Dis híer waar die ashoop lê. 

Gedagtes en dade 

woorde en moorde 

gepleeg in hel-op-aarde

word op die gemors gestoor. 

Pre-inkarnasie 

pelgrim Hemelaars weswaarts 

en krap en soek en vind 'n doring-in-die-sy  waaraan hul hul werk kan wy. 

Om dan in díe leeftyd te oorwin... is in die ashoop... een minder ding. 

Refuse Dump 

There is a welted scar 

on the far West side  

of the heaven's realm. 

This is where the refuse dump lies. 

Thoughts and deeds with ill intent, 

words harshly spoken bones broken, 

these were created in hell-on-earth 

and landed on this heap. 

Those in heaven pilgrim to the 

West just before incarnation's next 

test, they scratch and poke and find 

a challenge that suits them best. 

Overcoming this evil no matter how steep, 

is one less thing on the rubbish heap. 

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.