@johnalty
Active 4 years, 11 months agoForum Replies Created
-
Posts
-
Well done, @seagreen, excellent story.
Sunset
The sun melted into the horizon like a knob of butter in a frying pan and behind it the sky was on fire, it’s flames dancing on the restless sea. Soon, for this was the tropics where sunset and darkness are never far apart, a million stars would come out to play. Frank and his sister, Sarah, sat shoulder to shoulder, their feet half buried in the sand, watching the familiar display.
“Come on, Sarah, we’d better get the signal fires lit”, Frank said as he got to his feet.
“And a bloody waste of time that will be”, she said, standing and dusting the sand off her backside. “The chances of a ship seeing the fires, let alone reporting them, are non-existent, that’s the truth of it.”
Frank said nothing; he knew Sarah was probably right but he wasn’t going to fuel another bout of anger and anguish at their predicament. Later, when the fires were burning brightly, they ate the fish Frank had caught that day and drank the last of the day’s ration of water. Unless it rained soon, Frank knew, there wouldn’t be many more sunsets to be watched. The four barrels they’d managed to retrieve from the ship before it completely disintegrated on the rocks were almost gone. Two or three days at the most, for tonight’s sunset had shown no clouds gathering on the horizon.
As they prepared for bed in the palm thatched hut, Frank cut another notch into one of the support poles. Ninety-six days. It must end soon, one way or another.
“Good night, Frank.”
“Good night, Sarah.”
Frank came awake with a jolt. He sat up, looked around, confused. What had woken him? Then he heard a shout, coming from the direction of the beach.
“Ahoy! Ahoy! Anyone there.”Midsummer Madness
There was no current and there was no wind. I moved across a vast, gently undulating sea of quicksilver and, to the south a ship was eerily suspended on the shimmering horizon. Would the watchkeeper see me? Unlikely, I thought, the ship was heading across my course not towards me and he was several miles away. I checked the water bottle again. Half full. I wouldn’t allow myself another drink for an hour. I lifted my straw hat and used it to fan my face. My shirt was stuck to my back where it touched the helm seat. The sun was directly overhead, the sky bleached white.
When I’d set off it had been with a great sense of adventure. I’d explore the many callas with their sandy beaches. The boat seemed up to the job, I had a buoyancy aid and I took a bottle of Evian water with me. What could go wrong?
Well, I’ll tell you. In my life I have come to recognise the existence of a gremlin in all things mechanical. If anything could go wrong, it would. It only required that I would somehow be hurt or imperilled by the consequences and the gremlin would swing into action. In this case it attacked the mechanical connection between driving force and propeller. I was rendered propulsion less.
My attempts at repair were fruitless and I drifted out to sea with the retreating tide. I hoped the turn of the tide would propel me back to the place from whence I had come. I knew this would take several hours, perhaps all day. I was in serious trouble. I’d miss the set dinner. She’d be furious.
“You must be the only person in the world who could get into trouble on a hired bloody pedalo” she screamed when I found her at Reception where she’d been trying to get the clerk to phone the Spanish coastguard.
“It wasn’t my fault; the damn thing was deficient. The chain came off. I could have drifted off to America if a bloke on a jet ski hadn’t towed me back in.”
She rolled her eyes and stormed off towards the dining room. We’d have to eat a la carte, probably.
So, four very different entries this month. Eenie, meanie, minie, mo.
Seagreen made me laugh, Jill made me smile, Raine worried the hell out of me and Athelstone made me melancholy.Can’t separate you, all excellent.
But I’m going to give this months prize to Raine for all that energy and power.
Well done all of you!
Wow, thanks Libby! Well done to the other participants. I’ll think up some devilishly difficult competition for March and post later tomorrow.
New Day
The smoke from cooking fires lay like a grey blanket over Alexandra township and a tangerine sun rose behind it, then burst clear and threw its warming mantle over the land. The windows of the high-rise buildings on the distant Johannesburg skyline glinted like slabs of molten gold. A typical autumn dawn on the highveld but this was not a typical day, it was the first day of a new future.
Daniel and his mother stepped down from the bus and followed the other passengers towards the school playing fields, fields more dirt than grass. They joined the end of the line that led off into the distance, snaking towards the old tin-roofed school house sitting below the kopje. They exchanged greetings with those around them, made elaborate ritual handshakes and felt the hubbub of subdued excitement envelop them. The line shuffled forward, determined, unstoppable.
As the hours passed, singing broke out, spread down the line and mother and son joined in, passed it along behind them. The line danced and toyi-toyied, moving to the rhythmic slap of feet on the hard-packed earth as it neared its destination.
A sign painted in black letters hung over the door of the school house: Polling Station. When their turn came, Daniel and then his mother went in and made their choices. A cross; so simple to make, so hard won. Back outside, Daniel stood on the concrete stoep, raised his arms, fists clenched, and bellowed,
“Amandla!” (Power)
And those in the line responded,
“Awethu!” (To us)
Power to the people. It was 26 April, 1994.There are also examples in art – Paul Gauguin, Picasso and Freud, for example, were not particularly nice folk, it seems.
If a writer’s work doesn’t reflect his obnoxious views, does that make it OK? Or if his views are expressed in a work of fiction and not an educational piece?
Some very good people write fiction that contains extreme views, but they are those of the character and separate from the writer’s own views. Or are they?
Interesting debate.No problem @Libby, it was a flippant remark on my part, not intended to be taken seriously.
I have two pieces nearly done but I don’t now which of them to enter. Maybe I’ll enter both, one under a pseudonym. Would that be cheating?
Hi @skylark, good to see you’re back.
The Future
“The future is the time we haven’t had yet,” he said, “simple as that.”
“That may be what the future is but not what it holds,” she responded, “not what’s in store, where it might take us.” Then she got up from the picnic table outside The Black Bull and walked off.He thought about that last exchange as he strolled down West Street towards his flat. She’d became agitated, exasperated, frustrated. Why? She was perfectly alright over lunch – ploughman’s for him, spinach salad for her – and afterwards too, as they sipped their drinks. Then she’d asked that elementary question about what the future was.
“What is the future?” At first, he hadn’t realised it was a question, just one of her philosophical musings. Then, when he saw her expectant gaze he answered, logically, correctly. He now realised she must have been looking for something deeper. His simple answer was unsatisfactory. If he had known she would react the way she did, if he could have seen into the future, he would have described a vision she might prefer, even long for – she’d become a great philosopher, publish papers and a book, marry, have kids. Whatever.
In his flat he plugged himself into his recharging module. Just before he dropped into sleep mode he wondered if the technical people would ever get the bugs out of the emotional response software.
Well, I’ve read your entries with great enjoyment. Jeanette gave a beautiful allegorical rendition of the passing seasons, Athers made me laugh with his tale of Norman, the folium-phobiac hoist by his own petard, Sandra found a silver lining and Barney completely confounded me with this disturbing narrative – I’m still asking myself, what the hell is going on here? Then Jane Shuff’s poignant tale drifted in.
All excellent, as you would expect from this group, but there can be only one winner and this month it’s Jeanette.Well, there’s a pleasant surprise for a Sunday morning! Thanks, Ath, and thank you fellow Denizens.
I’ll ponder a new prompt and put it up later today.Fascinating tale, Philippa, well done for sticking it out to a triumphant end. Looking forward to reading the book.
I couldn’t do this idea justice. The right person could really build the tension and explore the changing relationships of the three characters as the story builds. Interesting project for someone, but not me.
Lost and Found and Lost
Arthur was rooting through a drawer in the garage, the one reserved for plumbing parts, searching for a tap washer. His gnarled hands scrabbled through off-cuts of plastic water pipe, white nylon fittings, a flushing mechanism still in its packaging, old tobacco tins holding copper olives, bolts, nuts and split pins. No tap washers. But, what’s this?
“Holy-moley” he said aloud. “I don’t believe it”. He reached for an object lying half hidden under a coil of flexible hose; it was a yoyo. The uncoiled string was entwined with the hose and it took a few seconds to untangle it and lift it free. The yoyo was painted bright red but the perimeter edge was uniformly worn to bare wood. “Walk the dog” he whispered, running his thumb over the damage. The string was special; a continuous loop, twisted for most of its length but loose around the spindle of the yoyo so you could do those tricks – spin the yoyo at the end of the string, then a little tug and it would shoot back up to your hand. Arthur stumbled to his old wooden toolbox and sat on it as a wave of melancholy swept over him. Marianne. It was the last time I saw Marianne, he thought. That night, at the yoyo competition in the town. Walk the dog, around the world, rock the cradle. I was so good.
Arthur had gone through his repertoire almost faultlessly that day. He recalled the finale clearly. He’d flicked the yoyo to the end of the string, which set the body spinning, lowered it to the floor and followed it as it scrabbled along the stage like a puppy straining at its leash. Marianne was in the crowd, lovely Marianne. Generous applause and he thought he’d done it, won the competition. And her heart. But the others were good too and in the end he’d had to settle for silver. But Marianne? Whatever happened to her?
“What are you doing, Arthur?” she said from the doorway, “You only came out here for a washer.”
“What?” He looked up, brow furrowed, squinting. Confused. He offered up the yoyo for her to see, the red body in his left hand, the string looped around his right. He shook his head, eyes glistening.“It’s me”, she said. Resigned, weary. “Your wife, Marianne.”
About 400 words
