Vonkfiksie: "Red Balloon"

Geo-Writing het hierdie jaar (2014) deel uitgemaak van die Brighton Digital Festival. Skrywers kry ’n tema volgens hulle GPS-koördinate en moet daarvolgens ’n verhaal van minder as 300 woorde ty skryf. My tema (vir Johannesburg) was “’n foto van ’n rooi ballon op Facebook”. Die ander verhale kan hier gelees word. Hier is die oorspronklike, Engelse verhaal.

Red Balloon

My parents told me that I was a soul they found floating above a stretch of grass next to the highway on their way to Johannesburg. My mom said I looked like a red balloon, and that she caught me before I could snag on a wiry tree or float down into the prickly winter-brown grass.

I never quite understood how I went from a balloon-shaped soul to human, but I knew I was different. In time the balloon became a silly bedtime story to grow out of. I acted like balloons didn't scare me. I carried balloons around because other children did. Balloons would slip from their fingers and disappear into the sky, but I could never let one go.

When I turned thirteen my parents told me that I was given up by my biological parents. Parents who, like so many others, had left the country. As if leaving me wasn't enough. As if I wasn't enough reason to stay.

It took a lot of time to find her name. On Facebook was a story of her new coffee table book set in Brighton - a far-away world of strangers. Snapshots of her, a red balloon and two toddlers. A photo of a lone red balloon above Brighton.

I choked as my soul spilled onto the floor with my tears. Mom caught me and snapped the laptop shut.

If only I were a balloon. Then I could float away. Then I could disappear. 

#182122396 / gettyimages.com

Vonkfiksie: A Cup of Tears

Hierdie is oorspronklik geskryf vir Flash Friday op 30 Mei 2014.

Cup of Tears

Outside the city walls red battlefields baked in the sun. Elah poured her tears into the palace garden’s dry fountain. “For my brothers,” she said.

Beside the fountain lay the broken statue of a woman – a reminder of a story almost forgotten. ‘There would only be freedom from the war when enough tears have been shed.’ Elah’s tears stained the grey stone. Women in mourning veils crowded behind her, cup in hand. They shuffled forward, each tipping their cup into the fountain. Tears blended, slowly filling the bowl.

“For my father.”

“For my husband.”

“For my son.”

But it was not enough.

Elah stood by the fountain for seven days and cried under a burning sky until she had no strength left. For fathers, brothers, sons, her people, her enemy.

“Is this enough?” she whispered.

Her last tear filled the fountain and spilled over the edge. The sound of battle stopped as darkness took her.

Vroeë dinastiese Illa, ca. 2600 – 2500v.C., Sumeries. The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Vonkfiksie: Graffiti

Hierdie is oorspronklik geskryf vir Flash Friday op 23 Mei 2014.

Graffiti

Letterboxes, Area 51 deur MartinStr. Via FlashFriday

Steve stood by his graffitied mailbox. A few dropped paint cans lay around.

“Bloody teenagers!” He would have preferred an echo, but only got the screech of cicadas. At last the postal van drove up and a postman sauntered over. He tried stuffing more unpaid bills into the mailbox.

“Some of us actually pay our bills, buddy.”

“I would love to. Of course, if you came into the house for a moment, I could show you why I can’t.” He kicked another can and sent it flying. The man didn’t notice it as he walked back and drove off.

Steve picked up another discarded can. It didn’t matter if he could move stuff if people didn’t notice. He covered the black spray-painted word “alien” with the more appropriate “dead man” in red. He added an arrow pointing to the house and threw the can as far as he could.

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