Thursday, January 8, 2015

Flash Fiction: When the Demons Came Knocking

This was the second story I wrote for the Flash!Friday Flashversary (as one of the semifinalists). The photo was the prompt.

When the Demons Came Knocking

The day the knocking started dad said it was demons that wanted to attack us. He said the sky would break and fall. Gran said it’s the old people who stayed outside in the Otherworld when we came to the True World. She said they had realized their folly, but could not find their way to us. But we all knew grandma was crazy.

Not far from our house is one of edge-mountains supporting the skydome. The white expanse, lit by the everlasting sun curved over the True World, locking us safely inside after fire burst from the ground in the Otherworld and covered everything in ash. But that was countless years ago – if it had happened at all.

The knocking became louder and more frequent and soon many heard the sounds emanating from the edge-mountain and the skydome. Dad kept watch. Watching for cracks, waiting for the demons he would burn and send back through the mountain.

But then I found the tunnel in the mountain. It was big enough for me to crawl into and I shivered at the thought of finding a demon lurking in the darkness. As I crept along its length it sloped upwards and a white light, like our skydome, flickered at the end. I rushed back to the safety of my home, but the call of the light would not let me rest. It was not long before I crept back into the darkness. Gran saw me, but she let me go.

The darkness of the tunnel was suffocating. The knocking reverberating through the skydome now seemed far away. The white light turned blue as I neared it. I stepped from the tunnel into blinding light. Vertigo flung me to the ground as I looked up into an impossibly big blue skydome. It did not curve with the reassuring safety of rock, but stretched on and on and on. The world before me was not covered in ash and fire, but with bright grass, trees and flowers. A few houses stood to one side and there were people like me. Women. Children. Men covered in soot and carrying metal tools. Had they been knocking? I picked up a stone, slipped it into my pocket and fled back into the tunnel when a man saw me. I slid and slipped to the bottom where my father, gran, and others were waiting.

“Did you see the demons?” one asked. I shook my head.

“We must destroy it,” father said. “We must break the rock and close it forever.”

Afterwards they acted as if the tunnel had never existed. But gran saw I’d changed. She asked me in front of my father what I had seen at the end of the tunnel. I read his face. Perhaps I am crazy too.

“Nothing,” I lied.


But now when I’m alone I stare at the stone I stole from the Otherworld and wonder how far their skydome stretch. I wonder if they even know we exist.

Didgeridoo. CC2.0 photo by Francois de Halleux.

Tuesday, January 6, 2015

Flash Fiction: Burning Away Sins

This was my entry for the Flash!Friday Flashversary. The photo was the prompt.

Burning Away Sins

Soon the library would be ashes. Scattered dragon tear stones burst into flame as she spoke the words of a dead language. She could feel the fire devouring wood and parchment, melting jewelled bindings, erasing words, charms, incantations. Remnants of written pages fluttered in the wind. In a bag hidden beneath her cloak was one last copy of the knowledge. Her brothers and sisters were silent statues in the flame-shadows. Together they had sworn to destroy all they had wrought by calling on powers and beings they could not control. Now they would clean the slate with fire, burn the knowledge, strip away the memories. Burn away their sins? Maybe there could be atonement in forgetfulness.


She felt the weight of the book and her broken oath. One last sin to keep the knowledge alive, but hidden away. To bring light in the darkest time. That could be her absolution.

Red Sunset. CC2.0 photo by Petteri Sulonen.

Sunday, January 4, 2015

Starting on a blank page

A new year, a new diary, a new blank page. Although the beginning of the year is an easy marker for a new beginning, for starting something new, it does put a lot of pressure on you. As if you need to wake up on 1 January and suddenly have life figured out, have a year planned out in front of you, have a newly printed list of goals on your fridge. This year will also be the first since 2007 that I haven’t been working towards a degree. It feels weird, but also liberating – it gives me time to work on new projects or projects I have been putting off. So, after a short vacation, it’s time to get out the new diary and start to fill it with whatever the year ahead may hold.

I hope 2015 will be a wonderful year, not only for those I know, but for all those around me. And I hope that for everyone at least one dream will come true.

Mont Fleur, Stellenbosch, South Africa. Photo by Carin Marais

Monday, December 1, 2014

Behind the Fiction – Merely this and nothing more

“Merely this and nothing more” won the 14 November Flash! Friday competition.
My interview with Rebekah Postupak over at Flash! Friday can be read here.

For this prompt you had to include a famous writer and the photo below, and I took the chance to see how many I could refer to as I couldn’t decide which one to use. I’ll give the story first and then a breakdown of the intertextual references – these are writers and books I think everyone should read at least once.  So, here it is for those who have asked me which works it was that I used.


Barbary Macaque, Gibraltar. CC 2.0 photo by David Stanley

Merely this and nothing more

If on a summer’s day a Story Teller was to exit Hotel L—, she would find herself on the road leading to the harbour. If she walked, her mind would drift through centuries of memories. If she remembered, she would colour memories to adventures, hovels to palaces, obstacles to giants. If she stood on the shore she would recall all the memories of all the ages. Cities. Armies. Voyages. Adventures. Sorrow. Love. Fear. Beasts growing listless in ancient temples beneath the waves.

If she was to tell all these memories to the ocean, she would slowly sink into a story herself; her voice caught in sea foam, her secrets bound in a chest on the ocean floor where fifteen dead men danced, her stories travelling through countries, years, and centuries before being caught by ink.

She asked if her own words, those grains of sand, would be remembered.
  
She did not wait for an answer; lest it was “nevermore”.

 
Photo by Carin Marais
The Writers and the Books, or, some stuff to put on a to-read list

“grains of sand” – after my initial “I want to use an Afrikaans writer” idea, I realised no-one taking part in the competition will know who I’m refering to, but I did include Ingrid Jonker, specifically her poem “Korreltjie sand” (Little grain of sand).

This poem is one of my favourite Jonker poems and ends with the line “korreltjie niks is my dood” (small grain of naught is my death*). The English translation can be read here. Ingrid Jonker led a turbulent life, which ended on 19 July 1965 when she committed suicide by walking into the sea at Three Anchor Bay in Cape Town.
*Translation by Antjie Krog & André Brink


Here Chris Chameleon is singing “Korreltjie sand” and at the end of the post is the superb music video created for  her poem “As jy weer skryf”, also sung by him.



Edgar A. Poe – The title and last word are from his poem “The Raven”.

“If on a summer’s day a Story Teller” – that was me butchering Italo Calvino’s If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler.  Read the book, is all I will say.

“hovels to palaces, obstacles to giants” – Cervantes’s Don Quixote. If you haven’t read this one yet, I can very highly recommend the translation by Edith Grossman.

“Cities…” – Homer’s Illiad and Odyssey

“Beasts growing listless in ancient temples beneath the waves.” – H.P. Lovecraft.  Audible has a range of audiobooks of his works (this is not an advertisement, I use Audible and find the books are of a high quality).

“sea foam” – Hans Christian Andersen’s “The Little Mermaid”. Do yourself a favour and read the original versions of the stories. You will never be the same again. This is a very handy resource.

The chest and fifteen men – “Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest…” is used in Treasure Island by R.L. Stevenson.