Vonkfiksie – Blou linte (Flash Fiction)

To read the English version, click here.

Blou linte

Daar moet reën wees. ’n Regte Hoëveldse donderstorm met swart wolke, donderweer en die tik-tik van hael op dakke voordat die ys jou vel steek en op die swart teer val en spring. Die hemel se trane moet my woede op huise en motors en sambrele moker.

Of dalk moet dit herfs wees. Geel en rooi blare. Die reuk van vars kompos in die agtertuin. Die appelkoosboom se growwe bas onder my hande en knieë terwyl ons die boom uitklouter.  

Dalk moet dit lente wees. Sonbesies en bye. Blomme en die reuk van gesnyde gras. Ons wat in die buurman se tuin inklim om moerbeiblare vir ons sywurms in hulle leë ontbytpapbokse te pluk. Ons wat giggel terwyl ons die blare van die lae takke stroop. Donkerpers moerbeivlekke op vingers, monde en kaal voete. Jy het altyd blou linte in jou hare gehad.

Maar daar is nie reën nie. Nie blare nie. Nie sonbesies nie.

Net ’n brandende somerson. Die begrafnisondernemer se oprit. ’n Gesig by die sekuriteitshek.

Ek gee die bondel vir die vrou. Die geplooide, bewende hand voel nie soos myne nie. Net ’n oomblik gelede was ons kinders wat speel-speel deur tuine hardloop. Saam.

“Blou linte,” sê ek. “Vir haar hare.”

Vir ’n oomblik ruik ek moerbeie.

View image | gettyimages.com

Vonkfiksie: Merely this and nothing more

Ek het hierdie verhaal ingeskryf vir 14 November se Flash! Friday-kompetisie en daar wen ek toe! Die foto moes as inspirasie dien en ’n bekende skrywer moes ook ingesluit word. Ek kon nie besluit wie om te kies nie toe gebruik ek omtrent ses. In die volgende inskrywing sal ek hierdie skrywers en tekste noem, want ek dink dit is letterkunde wat almal ten minste een keer moet lees.

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”.

Barbary Macaque, Gibraltar. CC 2.0 foto deur David Stanley.    

Nanowrimo en ander goeters

Ek neem hierdie jaar – ná ek al vir ’n paar jaar dreig – aan Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month) deel. Die roman waarmee ek besig is, sluit aan by verhale soos die onderstaande wat ek reeds geskryf het. My blaai op die Nanowrimo-webwerf ishier.

Artikels by dosyne

Verder skryf ek nou op ’n gereelde basis kort artikels vir verskeie webtuistes (wat beslis ook goeie oefening is!). Kliek hier vir dié artikels se skakels.

Vonkfiksie

Ek geniet dit terdeë om weekliks ’n vonkfiksie verhaal vir Flash Friday te skryf. Die verhale (ongelukkig almal in Engels, maar ek werk daaraan) kan op hierdie blaai gelees word.

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