Window to the soul

When I'm not thinking up crap or procrastinating, I draw. How about a personalised illustration for every story I post?

The flats in the clouds

I’m going to tell you a story. A story about a strange adventure I once had. Take a moment to cast all disbelief and doubt from your mind, and let me share this unique experience with you. It happened one cold winter’s night, many, many years ago:

I came to, head spinning and stomach turned upside down. It took a few seconds for my eyes to register my surroundings; it was pitch black, no lights were on. How did I get here? All that I could recall was lots of alcohol and dancing with my boyfriend and the gang... and that was pretty much it. So I must have passed out. I sat up, but it was just too much for my stomach to handle. I leaned over to the side and proceeded to puke my guts out. I vomited to that point where all you taste bile - how utterly disgusting, I know. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and tried to get up once more. My head protested, and when my stomach started to convulse once more, I decided that it might be safer to just lie back down on the couch and let another hour or so pass. I fell asleep, dreaming of orange juice flowing from one Royal Albert tea cup into the next, right above my head. I was waiting for it to spill over into my dry mouth, but every time, just before the orange juice could touch my lips, another tea cup would appear and the orange juice would pour into it. All I could do was watch the delicious, cold, wet orange juice flow, while I died of the thirst.

I woke up once more, feeling a lot better. It felt like a few hours had passed, but it was still pretty dark. I got up, still not feeling so hot and tried to make my way to a wall to feel for a light switch. On my way over I hit an object so hard with my shin, that I concluded that it couldn't possibly be made from an element of this earth. I let out a yelp as I tumbled forward, landing face first on the icy cold tiles. I laid there for a few seconds, softly mumbling/crying to myself, wishing someone would make the pain go away. I soon realized that it was very quiet, like, my mumbling was actually echoing back at me. I quieted down and listened, and it was too quiet. I got up and marched over to the wall, my hands flat against it searching for a light switch. When I found it I flipped it on, instantly blinding myself. I turned around to see the room through my squinted eyes. I was all alone apparently and I didn't recognise the place. I didn’t know how I’d gotten there or where Jake – my boyfriend – and the rest of the group were.

When I opened the front door, I noticed that I had been in a flat all along. I was on the top floor, it looked like it was about 4 stories high, and this flat was at the very end of the corridor. I started walking down the corridor, looking for a flight of stairs or a lift so that I could get to the parking lot and see if I could find Jake’s car. It was dark and cold, and eerily quiet. The corridor also seemed unusually long.

I was about half way through when I started to hear music – someone was playing the piano. It sounded like Lisa se klavier, but without Koos Kombuis’ voice or lyrics. I realised that the music was coming from the very next flat. When I passed it, the door was slightly ajar. I stopped. I took two steps back, and pushed the door open, very slowly. I suppose I was hoping to find someone whose phone I could borrow – because that would be the logical thing to do in that situation, but what I found, was very, very different. The layout of the flat was a carbon copy of the flat I’d woken up in. I stepped in through the front door into the open plan kitchen and living room area. There was a single floor lamp on in the far corner of the living room. Something about the warm glow of the light and the light sound of the piano sucked me right into the living room. At the far end of the room, was a door that opened up onto a balcony. The music was coming from there. I walked over the door and peeked out to see who was on the balcony. I cannot describe my reaction to what I saw. It was too awesome to express in mere words, but what I can tell you is what I witnessed in that flat that night; the balcony of that very ordinary flat, was carpeted with plush red fabric. A gigantic crystal chandelier hung low from the ceiling, casting bursts of moonlight into every direction. A small marble table was set at my end, with a bottle of champagne and one empty glass. But what was most striking about this extraordinary balcony, attached to this super ordinary flat, was on the other end of the balcony; a huge cream grand piano... and an English Bulldog, sitting on a piano stool, and a few pillows, playing Lisa se klavier.

“Help yourself to the champagne” the dog said, in a perfect English accent. I don’t think I moved or responded because the dog soon spoke again, “I’m afraid I am bound to this chair till 03h00, so you’ll have to pour your own champagne”. I was rather hung over and thirsty. If I couldn’t have orange juice, champagne would have to do. I popped the cork and champagne came bursting out. I stood there in a moment of shock before pouring the champagne. I took my first sip. I felt like my head was floating in the clouds. Everything just felt so unreal. I kept closing my eyes and reopening them thinking that the dog would disappear and my vision would adjust to something plausible. I wanted to ask the dog something, but I wasn’t sure what to ask. If I’d met an ordinary talking dog that could play piano, I might ask him how it was possible, but this was a posh dog. This dog had class. I might say something that would offend him, or worse yet, I might say something that would make me sound utterly unworldly. Like, where have I been the past ten years while the world embraced this snobby, talking, piano playing English Bulldog with a proper English accent? “So, what’s your name?” I finally managed. “Butch” he said. “hmmm, where are we, Butch?” I asked. With a name like Butch, I figured anything goes as far as questions are concerned. “We’re on my balcony” he answered, completely nonchalant. “Your boyfriend is downstairs though” he said. Just like that I was pulled back to reality and realised that this craziness started out with me looking for Jake. “What? What are you talking about? How do you know he’s downstairs?” It was as if I’d completely forgotten that Butch was a dog, and not a human. “He passed by here about an hour ago and there is but only one way to go, down”. I placed the glass of champagne back down on the marble table and ran out of the flat. When I got back to the corridor, the icy cold winter air hit me again. I hadn’t realised how cold it was while basking in the warm glow of the magical flat. I wrapped my arms around myself and marched towards the stairs.

I’d gone down two flights of stairs when I heard Jake call my name. It was coming from the top, so I figured that he was on the 3rd floor. I ran back up and into the corridor of the 3rd floor. It was pitch black. “Jake” I called out. I heard the distinct creak of a door toward the end of the corridor. I ran over. The door of the second last flat was open, but the security gate was locked. I wrapped my fingers around the bars and pressed my face through them, “Jake, are you in here” I whispered. I heard footsteps. Someone was coming to see who was at their door. Low and behold, a six foot clown appeared from around the corner. He had a huge-ass red nose, typical clown makeup and green hair on either side of his head. His forehead went on forever since he had a huge bald patch on the top of his head, which he hadn’t neglected when he painted his face. He was wearing a multicoloured clown onesie with giant black shoes. He smiled at me, “Hello, are you here for the party?” he asked, “ah... no, I’m looking for my boyfriend, Jake. Have you seen a young guy wandering around here?” “Maybe, did he come for the party?” Gee wiz, this clown was desperate for party guests. “No, he didn’t come for the party. Never mind” I said as I released my grip from the gate. I was about to walk away, when the clown spoke again, “Well if you’re not here for the party, what are you here for?” “Don’t worry, I’m sorry for bothering you, you have a good evening”, I turned around and started to walk back to the stairwell. I heard the security gate unlock behind me. I didn’t want to turn around; the idea of a creepy clown following me down the corridor in the darkest hours of the morning was more than a little unnerving. But then I heard “fetch her spike”.

Now well, I couldn’t exactly ignore that, could I? I turned to see who Spike was. Oh my fucking word. Spike was a Doberman with its skin on inside out and all four of its legs facing backwards. Spikes lips were curled backwards with his razor sharp teeth exposed and he was coming for me. I started to sprint as fast as I could, but the further I ran, the longer the corridor got. Spike soon caught up with me and it was then that I started to scream for help, hoping to wake one of the residents up so that I could find shelter in their flat. Spike lunged forward into my back, pushing me to the floor and ripping a chunk of flesh from my back with his razor sharp teeth. I started to scream hysterically. The very next flat door swung open and an old lady stepped out with a shotgun “Tell that fucking mutt to stand down or I’ll blow his brains out” she shouted. The clown whistled and Spike immediately recoiled. I started to cry, from shock I think. The old lady told me to get up before Bozo the clown let his mutt out again. I got up and walked over to the bad-ass old woman. “Let me take a look at that. Yep, it’s bad. You’re gonna have to go see the doc about that before you bleed to death” “The doc?” I asked. “Yeah, he’s on the second floor. He’ll stitch that right up, tell him Rose sent ya. Go on, before you faint from loss of blood”.

When I reached the second floor, I realised that I’d been in so much shock, that I’d forgotten to ask the little old lady what number the doc was at. I contemplated going back up, but I had the good sense to stay on the second floor. I’d rather have woken every person on that second floor than go back up there.

I knocked on the first door. It was as good a place as any to start looking for the doc, right? At the very least, I’d ask the person that opened the door, if they knew which number the doc stayed at. The door opened, but no one was there. This flat didn’t have a security gate on it. “Hello” the moment the word came out I recalled that this was exactly how the clown incident had started out. “Come in” I heard, from somewhere deep in the dark flat. “I’m looking for the doc, can you tell me which number he’s at?” I really didn’t want to go inside. This flat gave me the creeps. “I’m the doc, love. Come in; let me see if I can assist you”. Oh shit! I stepped in rather reluctantly. What were my options? Staying out here and bleeding to death? I walked down the passageway of the little flat, there were two rooms on the right, one on the left and one straight ahead. “Where are you?” I asked, not wanting to barge into the wrong room. “Here” he said. I could clearly hear that he was in the room straight ahead. I made my way towards him, nice and slow. I stepped into the room. The room was red – not like, the walls were painted red, I mean, the room had a red glow to it, but it was still dark. I could see the back of a man, wearing a white coat and leaning over a dissecting table. It was dark and with him in the way, I couldn’t quite see what he was doing. He was working with great care, whatever it was that he was doing. He extended his right hand and reached for a drill that was on the operating tray next to him. A drill??“ What can I do you for?” He asked. “Um... I was bitten, by a dog. I think I may be bleeding to death”. The doc stopped what he was doing and spun around. He was a frail looking little man. His eyes shone overly bright in the dark room. He smiled at me, “Bleeding to death hey? God knows I like the sound of that” He stood up and started to walk over to me. I then spotted what he’d been doing. He was dissecting one of my friends! Casey was stripped naked and her chest was split at the middle, the skin nicely removed and flapped over the sides of her chest like wings, to expose her ribs and internal organs. “Trusty old Rose, always sending me a new toy when my old one breaks” the doc said, lifting his hand and smoothing a bloody scalpel down the side of my cheek. It was in that instant that I decided that I was not bleeding to death, but rather, that I would be bleeding to death very soon, if I didn’t make a run for it.

I stormed out the flat and towards the stairwell, only, the stairwell was no longer there. It was a dead end. I turned on my heel; the doc was standing in front of his flat, smiling at me. I pushed past him with so much force that he fell to the floor. He let out a cry. I turned to look and saw that he’d fallen into his own scalpel; it was sticking into his ribcage. I decided that it still wasn’t safe, and if I were to live through this night, I couldn’t stop running. There was a stairwell on the other end of the corridor. I ran down the stairwell as fast as my legs to carry me. When I got the first floor, the stairwell stopped, which meant, it probably continued on the other end of the corridor. I started running towards the other end of the corridor when I passed an open flat. Something in that flat caught my eye and brought me to an abrupt stop.

I stood still for a moment, trying both to catch my breath and to calm my racing heart. When I felt like I’d managed to compose myself, I turned around and stood in front of the open flat. Again, let me remind you that it was the darkest hours of the early morning. But a twinkle of light shone from the kitchen counter of this flat. It looked like every other flat I’d just been in, but there was a single item on the kitchen counter that separated this flat from the rest; an egg - a golden egg the size of a chicken’s egg. It radiated light. Other than the glowing egg, all the lights appeared to be off. I wondered if anyone was home (or awake). I took a step inside. I didn’t want to, but I felt like I was gravitating toward the egg. No one jumped of a dark corner with an axe. Nothing grabbed me by the ankles to drag me across the floor. So it must be safe, I figured. I walked up to the egg. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I picked it up and held it between my palms. It was warm and buzzing. I sniffed the egg (don’t ask me why), and it smelled of candy. I was still busy losing myself in the egg’s charm, when the buzz turned into a crack. I got such a shock that I immediately returned the egg to the counter and took a few steps back. Slowly, the egg started to hatch. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of it; what would come out? A dragon? A phoenix? A magical goose? But then, when the creature inside revealed itself, my heart came to a standstill.

There stood Jake, in all his glory; naked and shining like a mini Greek god. “Jake?” I fell to my knees and covered my mouth with my hands. “What’s wrong?” he asked. I didn’t know where to begin. How? What happened? “You’re... You’re so... small” I could hear the tremor in my own voice. “Gee thanks babe, that’s exactly what a guy wants to hear when the takes his pants off” – I thought he was making a joke. Making light of the situation. “Are you okay?” He asked, holding out his hand. I stood up and walked over to the counter, he was holding an odd looking brown mushroom, “They really mess you up huh?” I didn’t know what he was talking about. “It’s been hours, are you still trippin’?” he pressed. “I don’t know what you mean” I confessed. Jake started to laugh. The more he laughed, the harder he laughed, and the harder he laughed, the more he grew, till he was his fully grown self again. I started to cry. All of this, everything that had happened, was just too much to handle. Jake reached out and pulled me into his embrace. “Don’t worry, it’ll soon be over. Next time we’ll just use oyster mushrooms in our Linguine hey?”

I woke up with the bright sun shining in my face. I was in on the kitchen floor next to Jake. When I sat up I noticed that I had vomit on my shirt. Jake groaned next to me. “Hey! Hey Jake” I was shaking him, trying to get him to wake up. “I’m awake” he said. “Why did we sleep in the kitchen?” I asked. “I found you here last night. You were standing in front of the egg tray, crying for me. I couldn’t get you to move, so I just held you here until you tired out.” “Really?” I was quite amazed. I remembered things a little differently. “I think my ‘shroom was laced with acid” I said. I lay back down on the kitchen floor and closed my eyes. It felt like I hadn’t slept in days. I thought back to the night before and the series of events that followed – in my mind anyway. “Did I leave the house at all?” “No, we were here all night.” Jake started to get up “Come, let’s go to bed”.

I held out my hand so that Jake could help me up. My whole body felt like it was buzzing. An old photo of my grandparents caught my eye in the passageway. In the room, I noticed that my porcelain clown had fallen off my dressing table and was lying on the floor, in my Doberman pinscher’s bed. Spike seemed pretty pleased; he had the clown’s head between his paws, licking its face like it was a lollipop. I undressed, happy to be vomit-free and then cuddled up to Jake. “I wonder where the English bulldog came from.” I thought aloud. “Huh?” Jake didn’t know what I was on about. “Never mind” I said, as I dosed off to never-never land once again.

Author’s note: this is a fictional story. I have never taken magic mushrooms and do not know what the effects are. This story was inspired by a weird-ass dream I had.

True love

The cat:
Here I am, sitting on the stoep, waiting for my soul-mate, the love of my life, to come home. It’s the same thing, every week day. I sit here and wait: all alone, with no one in the world, till, he gets home. I wish I had a purpose in life. A great undying dream, like so many out there, waiting to be fulfilled, but I don’t. From the moment I was born, I waited for him. For as long as I can remember, I have needed him, and him alone. So every afternoon/late evening, I sit here. I sit here and wait for him to return to me. If he is but just 2 minutes late, I begin to panic. What possibly could have happened? Was he attacked on his way home? Will he ever come home? I sit, and I imagine his warm hands upon my neck, caressing me with lust and longing. Every night, he embraces me so. I am the most seductive creature he has ever had the privilege of laying his eyes on.  With my consent, he smoothes his muscular hands over my body, I purr as I open up to him whole heartedly; embracing every inch of him as he too, embraces every inch of me. This isn’t just lust. This isn’t just love. This is real. This is the reason I am! The reason he is! The reason we are.

Soon enough, I hear his car approach. I am trained in the art of the sound of Engine-Roar; I know when he is near. I brace myself; even though it has been this way for years, I still get nervous every time. He excites me. He brings my senses to life. I ready myself at the door. The sound of his house key entering the keyhole sends shivers down my spine – the metaphor of it all is downright – orgasmic! He opens up, and I throw myself at him. Just like every day before this, and every day to come, he embraces me whole heartedly. Once again, I am reminded that this is my purpose. This is my reason. He lowers me down to my feet so that he can come inside and my whole world is turned upside down with joy. I pull myself together. I don’t want him to see how needy I am. I want him to think that it is he, who needs me. So I put my nose up in the air and stroll over to the couch, knowing all too well, that he is watching me, wondering if I love him as much as he loves me. Love is a funny game. We have to keep each other on our toes if we want to keep this game interesting.

Being the romantic he is he decides to make us dinner. I sit in our open plan living room/ kitchen, watching him prep and cook. What a handsome man. I can just sit here and drool all day. So caring and sweet. I analyse every movement, appreciate every muscle, as he swoops down to pick up a heavy cast-iron pot or a chunk of beef. What a delicious sight. Just then, he lost it. I don’t know why.  I don’t know what triggers it. But it happens. Maybe he’s jealous? Maybe he doesn’t like the way I stare? Maybe he doesn’t want to be loved? He opens the cupboard door and throws the contents on the floor. I just know I’m going to get it; I hop up and run for the door, but it’s locked. I’m trapped between the man I love and the monster in the kitchen. What will he do to me? He storms over to me, marching with all the energy of an army of thousands. But he stops in front of me. He doesn’t lift a finger. But I am scared, I know, I feel it in my bones, the pain and suffering that awaits me – by his hand. Only, he opens the door, I run out, screaming like my life depends on it.

I’ve run as far as I can go before the adrenalin has run out. Tired, broken, I stop in the middle of a field somewhere and assess my surroundings. What is wrong with me? He would never hurt me, would he? Have I over reacted? Will he ever forgive me? How dare I return and look him in the eye, accuse him of being a monster? It hasn’t been 5 minutes, but already, I want to go back. Is this what an abusive relationship feels like? Who says he’s abusive? Technically, he hasn’t hurt me yet. I just love him so, so much. I have to go back. I have to apologise. He is, after all, all that I have in this world...

The human:

I could hear my tummy rumble as I sat in traffic waiting to get home. As winter approached, I seemed to get hungrier earlier and I’m sure my cat, Faith, felt the same. Poor thing; every night she’d wait for me to get home, eager for a meal of course. I rescued her from a shelter some years  ago; she was just a few weeks old. She was my little fur-baby, that’s what she was.

As I pull my car into the driveway, I can see Faith bolt towards the kitchen window. She would undoubtedly jump through the kitchen window and then wait at the kitchen door, like that’s where she’d been all day long. I sometimes wonder what goes on in that silly little head of hers. How I’d love to be a fly on the wall and see what exactly she gets up to while I’m away. I start to unlock the door, a tricky process; holding my lunch tin, laptop bag and office files all while trying to get the door open as fast as humanly possible, because Faith is on the other side screaming her lungs out – as if she hasn’t been fed in weeks. I tell you, if this cat were a human, she’d be fit for Broadway!  As I swing the door open, I try to make my way to a counter safely. It’s not easy when you have a cat zig-zagging through your feet, fighting for your immediate attention. As soon as I’ve safely placed my laptop bag on the counter, I pick Faith up and hug the crap out of her. This usually encourages her to pull out the claws and get away as fast as possible. A strange thing, a cat is, always demanding affection, but rejecting it all at the same time.

Anyhoo. I decide I need to prepare dinner. The sooner I get it done, the sooner I can relax! I take out some beef mince and plonk it in the microwave to defrost. I then reach down for a frying pan out the bottom cupboard. I’d bought hamburger buns during my lunch time, so home-made burgers it was. Once the mince was all thawed out, I searched for my trusty old plastic container to mix my hamburger patty mix. I couldn’t find it. I cussed a few times under my breath – the damn maid kept packing it in a new location, and I was tiring of her games. I finally spotted it on the top shelf of the top cupboard. How in the hell, did she get it there? I was barely tall enough to reach for it. I extended my entire body, reaching as far upward as I could go, only just managing to grip the edge of the plastic container with the tip of my fingers, when suddenly, that simple, singular action, had a catastrophic effect; it was a plastic avalanche. Every single item buried away in that cupboard came shooting out, like that possessed girl in The Exorcist excreted profanities. Tupperware dishes that I hadn’t seen in years decided to extricate themselves from the confined space of the kitchen cupboard that had no doubt, been harbouring them against their will for all these years. It was only after the plastic massacre, that I realized that in the background, the most god-awful sound had polluted the air. I turned around, absolutely fear stricken, to face the source. It was Faith. She was on all fours, her back curled toward the ceiling with every single black hair on her body, facing up to the sky. Her mouth was open, with her teeth exposed and the sound that escaped could only be described as the kind of sound I pictured Satan himself, singing to his antichrist child as a lullaby. I ran toward the sliding door to free the poor animal. I don’t know if I did it so that she could get out, or because it was I that wanted her out, but it had to be done, the devil had to go.

It was hours later. Dinner had long since been devoured and my feet were kicked up on the coffee table, when Faith came strolling in through the door. I called her over, I wanted to apologise; the poor thing must have thought that world war III had broken out. But she was still skittish toward me. She darted over to her food bowl and nibbled on a few pellets before finally coming over to me. As I stroked her furry body and whispered sweet nothings into her little ear, I could feel her body start to relax against my chest and when she started to purr, I knew, all had been forgiven.

Author’s note: This story was based on an actual life experience, experienced by me. The first half of this story was from my cat’s perspective, the second, from mine. Read again, with this knowledge. 

Alice in wonderland - Short story #7

Today started the same way every other morning started; Alice woke up to the sound of the birds singing in the trees and the sunrays bouncing off her skin. She flopped out of her huge fluffy white bed and took a moment to enjoy the feeling of the lush green grass, which served as her carpet, under her feet and between her toes.  Alice looked up and smiled at the awesome landscape that lay before her. There were sunflowers as far as the eye could see. The sun was coming up in the distance, birds were singing, bees and butterflies were bringing the air to life with their wings and the sound of a distant waterfall brought a tranquil calm to the field. “Alice...”

This was life. It was perfect in every way. This was the way it had always been; alone out here in the field, happiness and sunshine and rainbows. Alice didn’t really know how she got here, nor did she ever give it much thought. Each day was lived in the moment, embracing every joy there was that the field had to offer.  Alice didn’t know her own age, or what she looked like; there wasn’t such a thing as a mirror out here, not even the water from the river in the distance showed her reflection. Either that or she’d never looked, but never the less, she’d never seen herself, and didn’t know what she looked like. But what she looked like didn’t matter out here. “Alice...” Alice started walking through the sea of sunflowers towards the sound of the waterfall, the filed started to part, one stem at a time; for each step that she took into the field, another sunflower moved out of her way, slowly but surely, creating a pathway so that she could move toward the waterfall with ease, without resistance, inviting her in. When Alice got to the waterfall, she eased her way into the slow moving water at the edge of the river. A soft blanket of spray, created by the waterfall splashing into the rocks, covered her face like an angel’s hands, embracing her with tender love and care; cleansing her body, cleansing her mind, heart and soul.  “Alice, do you hear me?”

Once bathed, Alice went to the rose garden; A good stroll down the river, was a wall of roses as high as the eye could see. When Alice would approach, the thick thorny vines would separate and make way till they formed a perfect archway for Alice to pass through. The rose garden inside was absolutely magnificent. The rose bushes were always in full bloom, with roses of every colour imaginable. Amongst the buses, animals roamed free. In the centre of the garden was a labyrinth of rose bushes, bursting with white roses. Alice stepped into the labyrinth, the rosebush walls stretching up so high they almost blocked the sun out completely. But Alice wasn’t worried; she came here every day, following the voice, the voice that called her name. “Alice, I’m here”

As Alice walked through the labyrinth, her heart started to flutter with excitement. Eager to get to the middle, she started to pick up pace. When Alice finally reached the inner circle, she saw a red and white checkered picnic blanket laid out in the sunshine with an assortment of treats ready to be tucked in. Alice raced up to the blanket and plopped herself down. She poured herself a glass of milk and ate a few of the delicious chocolate cookies that were in the basket. Alice didn’t want to have too many, as she knew her favourite was still to come. As Alice looked over the layout of food, she searched; there were cupcakes, candies, cucumber sandwiches, jam tarts, chocolate éclairs, and then Alice felt a hand rest on her shoulder. She spun around and there he was, with her toffee-apple in his hand. Alice lunged forward towards the toffee-apple she’d so been looking forward to, but the man pulled it back out of reach, “What do we say?” he asked. Ready to burst with anticipation Alice said, “Please!” He smiled and gave her the toffee-apple.

Adam sat at his daughter’s bedside. “Alice? Alice, do you hear me?” His tears, hot, burning his eyes as he tried his level best to hold them back, to be strong – for Alice. He wondered if she could hear him. Adam squeezed her little hand between his, before kissing her delicate little fingers and whispering into them, “Happy birthday sweetheart” and with that the tears started to flow; he could no longer control them. “Daddy loves you so, so much my angel.” Nearly two years had passed and every day, Adam came to visit Alice. He’d sit by her side for hours; holding her hand, reading her favourite books and reminding her that he was waiting. The doctors had long since given up. They insisted that it was just life-support keeping Adam’s precious little girl alive, but Adam never ever gave up. Every day, he came with a bribe; “Guess what I brought? A toffee-apple, your favourite. It’s waiting for you, all you have to do, is wake up”.

Alice looked into the man’s sad eyes as she sank her teeth into the toffee-apple. He always looked so sad, but when she took that first bite, he would burst out laughing and pull her into his embrace. This was indeed the perfect day yet again, she thought to herself, and the best part was, she got to do it all again tomorrow. 

Lunch with an attitude - Short story #6

I was starving. Driving home I couldn’t help but fantasise about all the delicious ingredients in my shopping bag. I was going to make the most super, duper, awesomesauce sandwich the world had ever seen and the mere idea of it had my shirt wet with drool that had seeped from the corners of my mouth. I pulled into the driveway and hopped out, keys in one hand, hand bag over the shoulder, and shopping bag in the other hand. As I sukkeled to get the gate open with one hand, turning the latch and my knee shifting the gate open. The weight of the plastic packet full of groceries started to slice through the flesh of my fingers. But I would not let the pain stop me. I had a bigger pain to deal with – hunger pains!

I laid all the ingredients I intended on using, out on the counter; fresh olive ciabatta, butter, cumin cheese, ham, gherkins, hot English mustard, lettuce and mayo. Yum! I plucked out the breadboard and a breadknife.  I pulled the fresh ciabatta out of the brown paper bag that the baker had stuffed it into. It was warm and crisp to the touch. I began to drool a little more when I imagined how the butter would melt into the fresh bread. Over eager, I plucked a piece of the crust off to try out. As I separated the crispy edge from the soft inner, someone objected, “please, spare me, you have so much”. It was the ciabatta! Okay, so it was more of a something that was objecting. “I’m sorry” I said in a very unapologetic way, “but I’ve spent hard earned cash on you and to be quite frank, I spent the last 15 minutes driving home with every intention of eating you, and I’ve worked up quite the appetite in doing so”. “Yes but, I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve got a rather lovely figure. I’m not sure if you’re aware of the sheer amount of fat and carbohydrates that I contain?” “Well that’s quite alright. I made sure that I had a damn good workout this morning, and I’ve earned this meal, every single calorie.” And with that I sliced into the ciabatta. A talking loaf of bread was impressive and all, but a girl’s gotta eat. “AAAHHHHH, YOU’RE KILLING ME”  the ciabatta could have auditioned for role on Broadway  with its performance. “Oh shut up, you don’t have any nerve endings, it’s not even logical that we’re having this debate right now. I’m eating you and that’s that”. I started to butter the slice that I had hacked off. “Have you no heart?” the ciabatta was not letting up. I didn’t bother answering this time. Why was I giving this piece of bread the time of day anyway? It was lunch and that was that. I didn’t need to have a heart about the matter. This wasn’t a living organism. It didn’t have a pulse and it didn’t need to be lead to the slaughter.

I cut the cheese and layered the slice of bread to the sound of a crying loaf of ciabatta. To be honest, that first bite just wasn’t what I imagined it to be. Who could enjoy a decent sandwich while someone was whining in the background? “You are not a living thing!” I finally hissed. “But, but...” if it had had a set of lungs, I’d swear it was struggling for breath between sobs, “but when I’m all done... When I’m all eaten up... there will be nothing left”. What was this ciabatta getting at? “Of course there’ll be nothing left. I didn’t go to the shop to buy a loaf of bread for my showcase... I went to the shop to get lunch. YOU, are lunch. You are not alive. You don’t breathe; you don’t have blood or veins for it to pump through. You are not, alive!”. “What does life mean to you?” As interesting as the question was, I knew that all that the ciabatta was trying to achieve was to buy time, or find a way of talking me out of eating the rest of it. “Life is to be a living organism.” I answered. “But then, why do you take people off of life support when they are brain-dead?”  “Excuse me?” “Think about, why?” “Because if someone is brain-dead, they are dead. If you take life support off, they die.” “Yes, they die because you took life support off – you yourself just said that life is, a living organism, so if we eliminate the source of that life, why would you consider that living organism dead, if it is brain-dead?” For something that didn’t have a mouth, this ciabatta had some pretty smart-arse questions! “Well, I suppose we are our brains, or rather, our brain is who we are. If the Brain is dead, there is nothing of us left...” at this point I’d finished my first slice of ciabatta, and even though I was feeling for a second slice, I found that I was now interested in this very deep conversation that I was having with my lunch. It occurred to me that if I were to finish this conversation, I’d have to hold back on the next slice. “So, you are your consciousness then?”  the ciabatta was referring to humans in general, “absolutely” I answered without hesitation. “Am I not a form of consciousness?” the ciabatta asked. “Do I not witness and understand my surroundings? Am I not opinionated? Do I not express my will to live, to continue existing? If I had a bleeding heart but could not understand, speak or communicate, would you take my life right here, right now, so that you may eat lunch?” “NO! I would never kill an animal. What kind of a monster do you think I am?” I asked. “Yes, what kind of monster are you?” it too, asked.

What kind of monster was I? That was an excellent question. What was it to be humane? What was life? What was consciousness? What difference did consciousness - awareness and intelligence - make to my opinion about who, or what, could live or die by my hand? So this inanimate object can communicate with me and tell me how it feels, it can object to death. But what of the pig that died so that I could buy ham at the shop today? How did it feel? It had consciousness. It would surely object to dying. It would surely wish to live another day. What was I doing? What were we (as a human race) doing? When did we stop seeing living things as alive, once they were dead and processed? When we stopped doing the dirty work ourselves? How was I to fix it? Become a vegetarian? Just then I cut another slice of bread. I ignored the screams and protest coming from the ciabatta. “No,” I answered to myself, “from now on, I will kill all my food, myself!”

I reflected on the odd conversation I’d just had with a loaf of bread, as I finished my ham sandwich, it had given me a new respect for life; a perspective that I would have to maintain, if I were to value my own life and the gift of consciousness. 

The lost soul - Short story #5

It was a particularly cold night. Rebecca pulled the old dirty blanket tightly around her shoulders, wishing she had enough coins for a hit. Just one hit, and she'd make it though the darkest hours of this ice cold winter night. But Rebecca didn't have enough change. There weren't as many people out on the streets on a snowy night like this. It wasn't very often that she had to ride it out sober, but on the nights that she did, she suffered badly. Not as much from the withdrawal, but from the cold, the hunger, and worst of all, the loneliness. Too scared to fall asleep in fear of being attacked or freezing to death, she'd lie in her corner, shivering and thinking, all night long. Thinking about the events in life that got her to this point, thinking about all the awful things she'd done to survive. Counting every horrible thing that had happened to her so that she could justify to herself why she was where she is today. It was nights like these where by sunrise, she felt so lonely and empty inside, that she wished the cold had taken her.

Rebecca was just 12 years old when she first found herself on the street. Her mother had been beaten to death by her stepfather. Her stepfather had been taken to prison. The welfare system missed her completely. She'd been sitting in that old apartment for a week when the landlord threw her out because he had new tenants for the place. When she first stepped out, she was frightened, she didn't know the first thing about responsibility. But by nightfall, a lovely lady named Angel took Rebecca under her wing. Angel gave Rebecca a new name, a hit and then sent her straight into some old man's car. He looked like he could have been about 50 and from the wealthier part of town. It wasn't the hit, that enabled Rebecca to do her job that night. It wasn't the fact that she was too young and didn't understand what was going on - she knew all too well. It wasn't the fact that she'd seen daddy abuse mommy or that she was out on the street and needed to find a way to survive. You see, Rebecca was used to entertaining older men; she'd been doing it for as long as she could recall. They'd come into the apartment, and Rebecca's stepfather would charge them by the hour. Hell, Rebecca's stepfather would help himself most nights too. So you see, not much different happened there that night, other than the fact that this time, Rebecca got a hit. Yes, it was the escape she'd been dreaming of, and that night, an addict was born.

The cold had gotten into Rebecca's bones. She reluctantly got up to go find some newspaper or something, anything to keep the cold out. She hobbled along to the nearest bench, some kid was out cold - "lucky sod", she thought to herself. She grabbed the newspaper he'd been hiding under, and hobbled back over to her corner. As she sank back into position, her mind went back to better days:

In Rebecca's teenage years, every man had wanted a piece of her. At one stage, she felt like the highest paid prostitute in the city. She reminded herself that she wasn't used to much in life so anything at all made her feel like a millionaire. There was this wealthy business man that used to call on her every Friday night. He was young and good looking, unlike just about every other customer she had. He'd say nice things to her, buy her nice clothes, and once in a while even take her out to dinner. She'd fantasize about him asking her hand in marriage, moving into his house, driving his car, having his children, and most of all, spending Christmas with his family. But naturally, none of that ever happened. He stopped coming, he found a new toy; someone younger, prettier. The night she found out, she tried to OD. Unfortunately, it didn't work. She woke up on the street, naked and covered in her own vomit. Nobody wanted a useless prostitute covered in vomit at the PleasureHouse. What would customers think? And what if she had died there? That wouldn't do well for business now would it?

But that was many years ago. Today Rebecca sat on the street, huddled up against the back of a busy restaurant, waiting for the scraps to be thrown out, aged and weathered. She'd lost a foot too. Silly little cut it had been; caused an infection that she didn't have the money to treat. When she became so ill that she found herself on death’s door, the state hospital amputated the problem. Again, the universe had been cruel and had spared her life.

It was then that a special feeling came over Rebecca. At first, she couldn't identify it. She had never felt it before. She didn't know if it was physical or if it was an emotion. And then it hit her - it was peace, calm. Something was happening, and it made her feel even better than any hit she'd ever taken before. The cold started to fade and a numbness came over, yet somehow, it warmed her chest. Her eyelids started to hang heavy and her breathing started to slow. Rebecca knew her night had finally come, and unlike she had anticipated, here she was, fearless, welcoming the nothingness that lay ahead. The ULTIMATE nothingness. "Oh, you finally show me mercy my Lord" - and with that final thought, Rebecca released her final breath. Just then, the boy on the bench had woken from the cold. His trip had run out, or so he thought, when he looked up and saw a man in a shredded outfit and no shoes. He had long white beard; the kind you only see in fantasy movies on wise wizards. But what really struck the boy, was a set of magnificent angelic wings that stretched out far into the street. He was standing with Rebecca, hand in hand. "Are you ready?" the man asked. "I've been ready for a long time my Lord" Rebecca answered "then let's get you home, there's a hot meal and a warm bed waiting for you" Rebecca felt the hot tears stream down her cheeks, “how am I worthy?" she asked, “who is worthy, if not all my children?" the Lord answered.

The old house - Short story #4

The taxi pulled into the driveway, she had finally arrived. It had been a long trip, travelling all the way from the Cape to Natal. Trafalgar seemed like a small overgrown little area. Fey hadn't seen this house since she was a little child, but she remembered it well. Her oupa had built this house with his own two hands. This was the house mom had grown up in. From the front, it looked like a relatively small house with a small front garden, like every other house in this street, but it was in fact built on a natural embankment - this area is full of ups and downs - so the house was actually a 4 story building, with a back yard that stretched out all the way to a crocodile infested swamp. Fey remembered that the top floor, the one seen from the street, was the only one she'd ever seen. There was a gate where the stairwell led down, that prevented anyone from accessing the other floors. Not even ouma went down there. Fey remembered looking down the dark stairwell - after the gate the rest of the stairwell was pretty much consumed by darkness - in between the mountain of crap piled up all the way to the gate, was an old mannequin. It was missing it's arms, it's face was in a poor state and it was leaning up against the gate with it's head pressed up against the bars. As a child, that image alone kept Fey far away from the staircase.

Fey got out the taxi, grabbed her bag, and paid the driver. She walked right through, the front gate had rusted so badly that it was stuck and couldn't be closed. As she approached the front door, she noticed that the windows were broken, the burglar gate was off it's hinges, and the wooden door as well as the wooden shutters were rotting. It looked pretty creepy, but oupa had passed away after many years in an old-age home and mom was sick, so she had to come and assess the damage, so that they knew if it was worth trying to fix up. As soon as Fey stepped in, she knew, she should have booked herself into a hotel, but it was too late now. This place was going to be impossible to live in. She'd have to find out about a b&b tomorrow.

After she had put her bag down in the guest room, she decided to take a quick look around. There was a long passageway that went right through the house. There were a few doors on either side, almost like what you could expect to see if you were staying in a hotel. On the right hand side, there were 3 doors. Two of them lead to a guest bedroom, and the last one, right at the end, lead to a little reception area, which had two more doors, one that lead to a shower - strange, but that's how oupa built the house - and another that lead to the bathroom, which had a bath, toilet and basin. She remembered that there was an old child mannequin in the shower, and how much it used to scare her, so she didn't even bother looking there, but she opened the door to the bathroom. Inside, she saw the old barbies ouma had used to make toilet-roll holders with, and soap bottle holders. They consisted of the upper torso of a barbie, put into a dress knitted in such a fashion that it looked like a ballroom gown, where the bottom half had a space to fit a toilet roll or bottle in. By now the babies looked like they had been through world war 3. They were hanging in their dresses, filthy and half eaten away by rats. The bathroom tiles were broken. The bath was filthy. Fey opened the basin tap. It made a gargling sound, and then brown water came shooting out, spitting all over the place and into Fey's face. She stepped back wiping her face off with her sleeve and spitting the disgusting old water out. This was going to be fun. 

Fey stepped back into the passage. This time standing on the opposite side, she once again analyzed the doors on the right. There were 3 doors again and a door right at the end of the passageway. She knew the door at the end led to the living room, the same room she'd seen when she first entered the house. The first door on the right led to the main bedroom. She remembered it as a large bedroom, with large windows that overlooked the back yard and swamp. It also had it's on ensuite bathroom. The 2nd door led to a room she'd never been in. It was always looked up and ouma kept the key. The 3rd door led into an area where the dark stairwell was on the right, another door to the kitchen was on the left, and then the rest of the area was open, like a big empty room. Her grandparents kept huge cages in this area with cockatiels that would sing Jan Pierewiet every morning. At the end was another door to the right, which led to the main bedroom again, and another door on the left that led to a storage area for ouma's needlework - she made creepy dolls with left over doll parts that oupa would bring home from the junk yard and scraps of material that was left from the huge church dresses she would make for extra money.

Fey decided the check the second door, since she'd never seen what was in that room before. She pulled the handle down and pushed - it was locked. How disappointing. She decided to check the 3rd door. To her surprise, the stairwell gate was wide open. The mannequin was still there, along with all kinds of other junk, and yes, it was still pitch black. Fey couldn't contain herself, and decided to go down. She stepped down the first flight of stairs, and then stood face to face with the dark at the gate. She pulled out the torch she'd brought with and turned it on. She shined it into the black area. It was so full of junk that she couldn't really make out what the area was for. It looked like a storage space of some sort. She stepped forward, there was web and rat poop everywhere. Her heart started to beat a little faster, she didn't know what she would find in here. As she progressed through the little passages made through the piles of junk, she noticed another stairwell that leads further down. She had to climb over piles of old newspapers to get to it. Fey put the torch down on the newspapers, placed both her palms flat down onto the pile, and pulled herself up. She heard scattering, but was too scared to look, she knew it would be rats and cockroaches, and she didn't want to see them. She twisted herself around and leaned her left foot down, searching for the floor. Fey let out a sharp scream; she had stood on something soft and squishy and couldn't help picturing a dead homeless man decomposing between all this garbage - it sure smelt like a possibility, which she'd previously dismissed as dead rats and cats. She grabbed the torch and jumped back, to get away from the potential dead body and tripped over something hard, she fell back and started to roll down the stairs.

Fey groaned, as she attempted to get up, she had hurt her leg in the fall. She'd also hit her head and she wasn't sure if she'd lost consciousness or not, and if so, for how long. It was even darker down here, if that's even possible. She grabbed her torch, which was still on and shined it around. The wooden floor was rotting away, parts of the floor was missing completely. There was a couch in the distance, with a coffee table and a TV unit - no TV, was probably stolen. She figured that this floor was some sort of man cave for her oupa. She decided that it was too risky to look around, she'd have to go back up and face what ever was rotting in the darkness upstairs - it was big, too big to be an animal and the idea frightened her to death. Fey tried to stand up, but a sharp pain shot through her injured leg, and she collapsed backwards, landing smack bang on the rotting floor, which instantly gave way. In that split second, Fey knew she would not survive this fall, she was going to land on the bottom floor which was sure to have a cement base and she'd snap her neck for sure. Fey hit the ground, but to her surprise, it wasn't that hard. Her leg hurt, but other than that, she seemed to be okay. Fey felt around, and realised that she had fallen on a mattress. Her torch had come down with her, but it had bounced off the mattress and rolled over to the other side of the room. She'd need to get up to go fetch it so that she could see her surroundings. Fey was gathering the courage to get up on that injured leg, when something grabbed her attention; the faintly lit area that the torch was shining on. It was a brick face wall, with huge metal chains and cuffs dangling from the ceiling.

Fey's heart pounded in her throat. What the hell? She couldn't see much but immediately figured that she was in a torture chamber of some sort. Who was her oupa? What did he do here? She couldn't get up right away, so she got on all fours and crawled toward the torch. The floor was cement, as she'd expected, and she was very lucky to land on the mattress. The cement was cold and hard. The floor was sticky and damp, with small sharp objects scattered across, probably stones. Fey grabbed the torch and had a quick look around. The batteries were dying and this level was dark! She was searching for a stairwell. Shining the light from the left and slowly making her way to her right, she spotted more chains bolted to the floor with cuffs at the end. The mattress was in the corner, and standing all alone, was a single chair in the middle of the floor and then there it was, the stairwell, but then Fey suddenly spotted somebody on the chair, she shined the light back on the chair and this time, there was a little white piece of material draped over the seat. She figured she'd seen a little girl, no more than 7 years old and assumed that the white piece of material that she was looking at must have been the little white dress she thought she saw the little girl wearing. Fey was petrified. She started to crawl toward the stairwell. When she got to the first step, she realised that she was going to suck up the pain if she wanted to get out of here. As she climbed on the first step, she heard something. She'd been shuffling and groaning and the sound of her weight on the wooden step had caused the wood to creek, so she stopped, trying to breathe as softly as possible so that she could listen carefully - had she heard something? And then there it was, a soft, muffled voice of a child; "Don't go".

Fey's heart stopped. She had heard that voice very clearly, but she knew that it was impossible for anyone to be down here. Her instinct told her to ignore it and get out NOW, she bit her lip and started to crawl up the stairs with meaning, when she felt something grab her injured leg... She screamed so loud that she thought her own eardrums would burst. She looked back and saw decomposed hand latched around her ankle, it was coming from underneath the stairs. She started to scream "LET GO, LET GO" and shined the torch up the stairs, looking to see how far she need to climb still to get out of this basement, when she saw the gate. "SHIT". She was locked in. Suddenly Fey fell forward. She'd been released. She practically ran up the stairs to the gate, forgetting all about her sore leg - it wasn't that big a deal anymore in comparison to the situation - she shook the gate, it was locked and she wasn't going to get out this way. Fey sank down to the step and started to cry. The sound of Fey's sobs filled the air. Soon, the sound of another woman's sob started to join in and then another. Soon Fey's sobs were drowned out by the sound of a dozen women all sobbing. Fey looked down the stairs and in the dark, could see beaten battered women, all sitting on the stairs, reaching for the gate, crying for help - like her, they too were trapped. Fey closed her eyes and shut herself up. It was quiet. She looked down again and the stairway was clear. She picked up the torch and shined it down the stairs and at the bottom was a group of mannequins all standing in the basement facing the stairwell. Fey wet herself, she couldn't contain her fear. She heard the sound of a key in the gate, she turned her head to see who was there. "Ouma?"

"You fucking little whore. Did he really think I wouldn't find you here?" "No ouma, please, it's me, please help me" Fey knew it was pointless to plead for help. This wasn't ouma. Ouma died when she was 12. This looked like ouma, but this thing had an evil look in it's eye, and when it spoke, it did so with the voice of a demon. Ouma lifted her right hand over her head; she was holding a kitchen knife. She thrusted the knife into Fey's back, Fey screamed in pain and fear. Ouma stabbed again, and again, and again, till Fey's lifeless body was laying on the stairs, her warm blood dripping through the rotten wood and softly tapping the basement floor beneath. Ouma turned around and vanished into the darkness.

Fey stood in the corner of the dark basement. She stood there next to countless other women and children, all dripping in blood, watching the gate, waiting. Waiting for the gate to open. Waiting for oupa to come, come see what ouma has done. Come let us out, just our lifeless bodies, so that we may find rest.