Poster art

I love poster art from old movies (this was before photoshop came along and brought an end to illustrated posters). This is one of my favourites:



It's a horror movie, but the creature seems more sad than menacing. One illustration evoking so many conflicting feelings...

FUN

Almost a month to the day after our last show. It doesn't quite seem real yet.

4 months from today...

... I'll be married. I can't frigging wait!

Stories coming soon, just as soon as work stops being so intense!

These ancient places

I’d come a long way in 24 hours. From sitting in my bedroom in Durban here I stood in Athens at the foot of Hadrian’s Arch, the Acropolis rising in the background impressive and wise and ancient. It stands above Athens with a kind of antique though powerless majesty, like a dethroned king still sitting with a regal and haughty air on a kitchen chair.
I wandered crumbling alleyways on flag stones worn smooth and slippery from years of hurrying feet and came upon the Roman Agora and the Tower of Winds, and ran my fingers gently over the faded and perfect masonry. Feeling dazed and puny and young, I climbed the steep hill to the Acropolis, where sits the Parthenon unmoved and unfazed at all the attention it receives. I stood on the Areopagus and tried to catch snatches of Paul’s voice as it would have rung out almost 2000 years ago.
… and I felt greatly saddened. These places which hold such majesty and grace somehow also seemed like toothless old men whiling away their dotage in senility. Hadrian’s Arch sits cramped in a tight fence just metres from a busy road, itself the antipathy of the arch’s static state. I thought about Durban, where something built in 1800 is old, but in Athens everything is ancient, steeped in millennia of history. ‘History’, that word that rolls off the tongue, which when uttered as a whisper echoes with the clash of steel in antique battle, of witty retorts in the senate, of the wheels of chariots rumbling over cobblestone.
And yet, in this the most ancient of places, the locals do not glance at these monoliths of times lost and mostly forgotten. Every one of them pursues modernity; it must be difficult not to look forward when everyone else is looking back. Hadrian’s Arch is fenced in, almost as if to stop it from escaping and lumbering off to another land, one where it feels it most belongs, one of toga’d bodies and braying donkeys, to trap all this history here and stop this city from becoming like any other wreathed in smog and ringing with the expletives of bus drivers.
It’s so difficult to reconcile brash American tourists with their iPods firmly planted in their ears, boasting loudly about the previous night’s party, with the Parthenon. It seems counterintuitive for these two things to exist in the same space. And I think of the empire today which has replaced this discarded one. In 2000 years, will tourists visit the ancient Absa Stadium? Will the Empire State Building be an archaeological find? Will the numerous discoveries of McDonald’s franchises lead historians to believe mankind followed a deity called ‘Ronald?’ (In that respect, would they be wrong?) Will the writings of Dan Brown be to them our Plato?
I wondered what would become of these ancient places and mourned for the day when the last of these buildings crumbles into dust and is scattered by the wind.

Die young!

One summer, there came a new boy to climb trees, to plunge into the river on days when the very air scorched your lungs. He came slowly, timid, aware of how different he was. He watched the tumble and jostle of the other children through flaccid eyelids and compared his body to theirs. He was raisin-skinned where theirs was fair and tight. He had liver spots where they had the beginnings of pimples and his veins wriggled visibly underneath his skin. Trapped in a wrinkled old peach-coloured body suit, he shyly consulted his feet on the edge of their awareness, trying to reconcile this body with the one he remembered from yesterday, the one that didn’t fail him at scrambling over walls and supported him when doing handstands. This body seemed a poor imitation of the one that fell asleep on a balmy evening, young pores perspiring gently after a long day of teasing girls, running with dogs and playing cricket on the lawn.
He awoke early in the morning, one that brought with it familiar birdcalls and summer lawnmowers throbbing, though in a strange room, with strange hands and feet scrabbling at his sheets, sheets he could have sworn held spitfires and zeppelins the night before, ancient lids revealing youthful eyes. Alarmed, the cry for his mother came from a strange old voice, as if his grandfather was lying on the bed beside him and translating his thoughts into words. This voice filled his ears like the sound of gravel crunching underfoot, coarse and shocking.
He sat up quickly and his back creaked like an old house, groaning at what felt like a foreign motion. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and gingerly put his weight onto them. As he looked at them he realised they were not his own, not that he could recall. His had been tanned, strong and bald, tapering down to flat dirty feet, but the two limbs that dangled over the edge of the mattress looked like they’d been tacked on with thread, borrowed from a dead man. They were pale and spotted, varicose veins scurried like road maps, his knees were swollen and wider than his wrinkled thighs, and beyond them on the floor were old toes with long, yellow nails. The boy gasped at the horrible prank his brother must be playing on him, wondering that this was a step up from the usual bucket of water above his door, or the trip wire at the top of the stairs.
Slowly, painfully, he edged his weight onto his legs and stood up, gripping the sheeting with both hands to steady himself as he tottered upright. He reluctantly let go of the bedclothes and shuffled away from the bed to the bathroom he saw through the open door, his hands thrust out in front of him like someone searching for a candle in a power failure. He was breathing heavily and leaned thudding on the doorpost as he reached it, his legs shaking from the effort. He took a moment to collect himself before moving into the bathroom to stand before the sink, above which was a mirror.
But it couldn’t be a mirror; it was lying. For a ten-year-old boy stood staring into the face of an old man. He turned around quickly to see if there wasn’t a great uncle standing behind him. He probed his face with his hands trying to find where the mask was attached, pulling at the loose skin and crying out when it wouldn’t give. He probed at his ears and found them to be long and dangly, each lobe feeling like an old prune. His cheeks sagged slightly and underneath his chin was the wobbly throat of the frog princes he’d caught just yesterday as he hunted in summer puddles. His face was a blotch of pink and white skin, except beneath the eyes where it sagged into two dark bags. His hair was wispy as the spider webs he’d run his hands through and was lank and lifeless as a moth-eaten curtain.
He would still not have believed it was him if it had not been for his eyes. Yes, those were the same. They were bright white, not a vein upon them, like a fried egg with a hazel yolk. Each pupil was small and pitch and young, and he knew they told the truth. He clumsily undid the buttons of his shirt with his thickly jointed fingers, the hair of his knuckles feeling like the wire he used to make fishing lures out of. He consulted his chest in the mirror. It had a path of hair from just below the collarbone all the way down over his sternum and bellybutton, marching to disappear into his trousers. It was long and thick and grey, and felt like the whiskers of his dog. His chest was scrawny and slightly sunken, his nipples the purple of winter-river fingertips. He dropped his shirt to the floor and saw that his arms were thin, with baggy skin where his muscles used to thrash and squirm. He lifted his right arm slowly and winced as he heard his protesting shoulder crack and pop.
He started to panic and stumbled back through to his bed, falling on it heavily, tears streaming from his eyes from the pain or the terror which was jolting through him. He cried out sharply before his throat caught, his huge Adam’s apple sliding up and down his neck as he gulped for air.
‘Ma? Maaaaaaaaaaa!’ He screamed for the only person he could think of, his cries carrying to the nearby cemetery where she had lain for twenty years and falling about her grave like bone dust and dead petals. The oldest child in the world cried until his breath ran out and a bewildered nurse came into the room to find a man older than her father and a boy younger than her son trapped in the same body.

His waking baffled the local doctors and it wasn’t long before their colleagues from out of town sombrely queued up to study him, rocking back and forth on their heels as they considered this ancient child, uttering more ‘Hmmm’s’ and ‘Ha’s’ than a convention of philosophers. His knees were raw from reflex hammers and he had had to open wide and say ‘Ah’ so many times his jaw was stiff and his throat quite sore. Furious scratchings on note pads were the soundtrack to these visits, entire tomes surely being written, but for all their rapid note-taking, whenever he stole a glance at one of their pads the scribbles were completely unintelligible. His daily appointments with the physiotherapist were painful and challenging, and she did not have to adjust her tone of voice for this special patient, seeing as she spoke to children and the elderly in exactly the same way; sweetly and with unintended condescension.
When not being minutely examined by sternly bespectacled men and women in white coats, he was allowed to wonder the town during the day. His original doctor (whose attitude about his celebrity patient had changed from scorn and burden to pride and boastfulness) said it would be good for his health after so many years of inactivity, and none of the nurses had the heart to deny him anything after having his whole life stolen by sleep.
At first on his wanderings, he had been dogged by journalists eager for a human interest piece, but he was shy and would not speak to them, which left them trailing him like beleaguered dogs after a butcher, hoping for a morsel but not truly expecting one. They eventually left him alone and published their stories anyway, either fabricating quotes or allowing local town folk to piece his story together for them.
No matter which direction he left the hospice, his meandering always brought him to the park, which held swings and monkey bars and roundabouts. He’d watch at the fence shyly, listening to the children’s laughter and giggling at the jokes he overheard about Van der Merwe, the Englishman and the Irishman. When the children were all called home for supper or homework and the playground sat empty, he would walk through it and touch things. The swings would still be moving, losing their inertia slowly, the roundabout would click to a stop as he got to it and the monkey bars had mud and ice cream handprints. It was in the decaying light that he would try to lift himself up on the monkey bars, or swing as high as a rooftop, but his body just wouldn’t listen to any of his commands. He tired too easily and would have to lower himself to catch his breath onto a half-buried tire the other children hopped on.
It was on one of these evenings that another boy was walking home alone, lost in his own thoughts, when he came to the playground and paused. There was that old man who everyone said was really a boy sitting on one of the swings and trying to push himself into the air. His feet scrabbled ineffectually at the sand and he could not launch himself forwards. The boy watched him quizzically for a few minutes before whining the gate open on its reluctant hinges and going to stand before the old man, who stiffened when he noticed him.
‘I’ll give you a push,’ was all he said before walking around the swing set. Suddenly the young boy felt himself getting pulled backwards, the ground sinking slowly beneath him. He gripped the chains tightly with his hands so that the knuckles bulged largely, and then suddenly he was hastening toward the ground before being swung into the sky, the horizon dropping below his feet as they raced towards the clouds. He came to a brief standstill before charging backwards at such a speed his belly was left a few feet in front of him. Everything seemed to rewind quickly before he was back at the beginning and young hands pushed him gently forward once more. He whooped and shouted and laughed, arcing back and forth like the pendulum in a grandfather clock.
And then there were no hands at his back, and his next ascent was not quite as rapid, did not shoot him into the stratosphere. His cries died down and he eventually swung to a gentle creaking, like a dull wind chime on a still day. He did not leave the swing for many hours, returning to his drab room when the night was strong and deep, ignoring the admonishments of the nurse. He had, for a few minutes, gone back to those days he felt he’d just left behind but would never discover again.

Saturday mornings were his favourite. He woke at a time familiar only to fishermen and Christmas morning children. He put on his brown tweed trousers and wished for some shorts, yearning to run barefoot as he put on his leather shoes but knowing his feet were too soft and fragile. He shivered as the sunlight flew horizontal to the earth, only touching the trees overhead, before it came in to land as its trajectory changed. On these days there was already the rumour of children, giggling and running. He heard small feet slapping somewhere to his right. A sinker dropped somewhere down the road rolled into his shoe. Bits of shirt sat like flotsam where thorns had grabbed at them greedily. Glistening mango pips littered the dirt path. And then he was at the river and watching the children, his dowdy clothing hiding him easily as he looked upon their kaleidoscope morning.
Boys ferreted like hadeedas in the dirt, searching with blunted fingers for worms or crickets which they skewered on hooks and cast into the water. They sat tensed for the strike of a fish and yelled insults at the girls nearby who were checking hopefully for sleeping visitors to their handmade fairy houses, finding none and replacing the dry bedding with freshly peeled moss.
The children made forts and threw sand clogs at each other. They pretended to be pirates searching for treasure, scurrying up trees to crow’s nests to spot new land beyond the water. They jumped into the river and played Marco Polo and Torpedo and Sharkey-Sharkey. They lay baking in the sun on the grass and swapped stories and boasts and apples. And everything they did was watched by the drab boy hidden in his geriatric suit, taking part in his mind and remembering clearly when his weekends looked just like this. He decided it would again, just one last time.

There was one tree which was never without a visitor in its branches. It sat in the middle of the park, which was on a hill and looked out over the entire town, just to the side of the playground, and it was wise and old. During the day children dangled from it like drops of resin and when the sun sank there was always a young couple which climbed it giggling and held hands and kissed as they watched the moon rise and the lights of the town flicker on one by one. And this day was no different.
A boy altered but much the same climbed the biscuit brown branches early in the evening just as the shadows slowly crept behind him, after the children had carelessly swung through it like vervet monkeys and before the couples would come, still applying makeup and deodorant and gazing into doppelganger mirrors. He wheezed his way to the top little by little, painfully, and making it saw again the view from the last tree he’d climbed over half a century ago, breathed in a high wind and sent his laughter away over the town to mingle in the hills and high places beyond, pleased that some things stayed the same. He searched a nest and allowed a sparrow to land on his hand. He saw a young girl scurrying home and threw an apple at her, laughing at her shriek of fright as it bounced into her legs. He stayed up there for sixty years worth of sights and scents and sounds.
And as the shadows reached his eyes he dropped casually out the tree, as the other children dropped with confidence into the river from rope swings on sticky days. The last thing he saw as the wind rushed past his ears was a red kite high in the sky, ignited in the fading sunlight, grappling with thermals and shouting joyously to him, ‘Die young! Die young!’

Anathallo is the most incredible band

As proof, visit this site and play the preview track, "The River". Then change your undies.

Let's redefine what it means to heal

Accidents littered our roads every day. Sometimes I wondered when it would be my turn to lie inert on the side of the road, haloed in shattered glass, my crumpled car a warning to others. Your grandmother and I were young and very much in love. We didn’t pay enough attention to the road. Her hand was always on mine, or resting on my leg, and we’d talk and laugh and sing together, far from worry. One day, driving back from the beach together, we passed an accident scene. The road was clogged up, all but one lane closed. Ambulances and police vehicles sat silently observing the scene, their lights flashing. We passed the ruined vehicles and saw a child not more than ten years old lying dead on the road. His body was crushed, his blood thick on the road. He was covered with a blanket as we drove on. There was a profound, devastated silence after that. When we got home, we promised each other never to look at accidents again. When we saw the siren lights spinning blue and red we would not heed their call. We would stare ahead with steely eyes.

It was a few days later. I was driving home after a long day, your mother in the baby seat. The traffic was slow and before long those familiar lights came into view. I remembered my promise and kept my eyes far from the carnage. I drove on and arrived home to an empty house. There was no note on the fridge. I tried your grandmother’s cell phone but it was dead. You mother was screaming in my arms, and there was nothing I could do to calm her. I never heard your grandmother’s voice again. It was she who’d had an accident. A truck driver had changed lanes without seeing her little car. She’d spun, and the car behind her hit her on the driver’s side. The medics say that they could not get her out of the car for twenty minutes. All the while she was calling my name. I wonder if she saw me as I drove past, right before she went away. There isn’t a moment that goes by that I don’t think about her, that I don’t rush to the side of her car, take her hands and whisper in her ear for her to stay.

The Last Cartographer

When not found shaping wood and tin to fantastic creations, John Walker, his body 81 years old, his mind dwelling somewhere in childhood, could be found poring over the ancient maps in his study. They calmed him. They gave him a sense of timelessness when all around him rushed forward in eager expectation of tomorrow. John was more content to look back, to cast his gaze over his own life and beyond over that of his father, and his father’s father, back to times when the world was flat and maps grew as milk spilling on the floor, horizons stretching and forming under each new sweep of the spyglass from gull-haloed ships. Back then there was adventure in every whiff of the sea breeze, new people to discover, new creatures and plants too vivid and outlandish to be birthed from a mere man’s imagination. And just below the water, lurking on the edge of the tide, waited mermen, toothed creatures, giant squid and ghost crews from ships long sunk. They were all there, waiting for the unwary sailor to slip from his rigging and into the deep.

It was the mapmakers who were the true explorers, great men whose names now engraved maps which many saw as naïve trinkets, blessed with the knowledge of GPS and geography text books. Chronological arrogance appalled John, who saw these men as the last true adventurers the world has seen. They were men born with great names and who lived up to them. He thought back to his own grandfather, a bear of a man with an easy laugh and a story for every empty evening. John would sit transfixed for hours, his grandfather’s voice washing over him like warm water from a jug when his mother cleaned his hair in the tub. Together on these balmy nights on the veranda, they visited the orient in times of sheiks, camels and veiled beauties. They ate dates and rode horses and came to desert fortresses where they rescued girls like desert flowers from scimitar-guarded harems. They sailed frigates over the edges of frayed old maps, tantalisingly close to the maws of monsters and the lascivious smiles of naked mermaids. They monkeyed into countless crow’s nests and called ‘Land ho!’ sighting islands never before seen by blue eyes. They joined the scallywag crews of dubiously honourable pirates to liberate fair maidens abducted by fierce pygmies. They drank from coconuts. They fell parched upon oases. They walked through spice markets as the first white men. They duelled scarred foes. They fell in love. They dusted the desert from their hands. They walked with nomads. They huddled under thin blankets in Himalayan snows. They trod before train tracks in deepest Africa and swam in the Ganges. They bartered for ivory and ran dodging poisoned darts. Adventure seeped deeply into the evenings from the well of his grandfather’s memory, his voice gravel and whiskey and gun powder, flick knives and stubble and leather.

The new maps, laser-printed and perfect, intelligent thanks to inherited knowledge from atlases grown senile, were things of great concern to John. Their precision had robbed them of all the qualities he felt maps needed to possess; adventure, a tingling in the belly, a taste that treasure was to be found, the worry of dangerous natives and places named for skulls and treachery and monsoon wrecks. There were no more hidden places, no strange animal cries to chill the soul quivering next to a camp fire, no lurking traps. All the blanks had been filled, all the adventure had been used up. Satellites flitted through the sky like whispers from a knowing mouth, sending, receiving, spying, telling. Great mysteries, which once afforded the dreamers nights of fancy, planning trips to dusty places that knew only the hooves of donkeys, were now shaken and lost like the cobwebs they brushed off their Stetsons in forbidden caves. Where once devils and mischievous winds prowled on the edges of maps, now sat oceans bleak and empty. The old explorers, great men now rendered obsolete, turned to drink and told their yellowing tales to anyone who would listen. What had become of myth? Were the times of antiquity to slide beyond consciousness? Were heroic deeds, pursued in order to achieve some kind of immortality, to be murdered and replaced by the exploits of celebrity misdemeanour? John always had to channel his mind away from such dark thoughts, and he could quickly lose himself in the tiny lives waging their war against time in the worn out pages he so minutely examined.

In the still, golden, dust-sweet air of his study, John would fall headfirst through time and disappear completely. He flew amongst the hanging gardens in Babylon, he sailed beneath the Colossus of Rhodes, he heard reading lips moving, the sound of learning, in the library at Alexandria. If he flipped a map sideways mountain ranges leapt above him, biting hot desert sand stung his eyes and arctic winds shivered him. He slashed through jungles with a machete on treasure maps that were treasures in themselves and slapped at giant mosquitoes which whirred about him arrogantly.

He visited the desert in North Africa and cried as he remembered the violence of the tanks he fought in, of the shifting landscape, of the taste of acrid smoke on his tongue, of the naked fear of death, of friends falling inert in the sand. He thought of the sand dunes that could have built up over each dead soldier, a fitting tombstone for those who lost their lives in a place no one would remember or could recognise upon returning. Sand dunes were in fact the only enemies of the exactitude of the modern map, shifting quickly, continental drift in a matter of days, weeks, months, years, the wind a shaping force creative and demented and inexplicable.

John could not be roused from these trips he embarked upon at the scrutiny of every map. He was lost to creaking vessels, to the backs of elephants, to the chatter of Pidgin English. He rode magic carpets behind fakirs, joined the caravans of Arabs and ran his fingers over cave paintings. And it was with this knowledge of bygone eras, of voyages to unknown places, of the scent of oil-polished leather, that he started to draw his own maps of places without fast food restaurants, without the treads of running shoes, without the click and whir of a tourist’s camera. And so John Walker, with a steady hand and a vacuum in his belly, thrust his pen back in time and drew history up again, gave it a sip of water from the highest, purest source and set it scampering about its task of setting young boys’ minds on fire once again, to cobweb televisions and movie theatres, to breathe new life into a world gone stale and cynical.

And his pile of maps grew.

The vibe!

Okay, I apologise for not updating and for leaving the story on a cliffhanger - trust me, I really wanna know what's written in those letters! However, this little story has changed from a writing exercise into something bigger I want to work on. So I've been getting my brain-meats sizzling and will continue to let them brown for a little while until the basic structure of the story fleshes out in my head. As soon as I start writing more I'll start posting! Thanks for the support and kind words! In the meantime, I'll put up other little ditties as I write them.

By the way, go check out Polony Mixed Meat Magazine if you like satire, comics, music, meat products, skants, hairy underarms, green juice, mayonnaise, fish curries and/or lowbrow humour.

Stay cool

Just moments before the meteor struck

Visual representations

My friend Steve recently used my story as the basis for a series of illustrations. You can see his other work on his flickr account. Here they are in all their splendour!

Happy spring, everyone

I'll update my story soon. In the meantime, here is something I pulled off a dusty shelf. It's how Greta makes me feel. Have a wonderful trip my love, I'll miss you.

On certain days he would arrive breathless at the gates of his grandparent’s house, skin like lava and mud caking his legs where it had splashed up from puddles. He’d scale the gates with ease and head inside to give his grandmother a quick peck on the cheek before raiding the pantry for some ginger biscuits and shooting into the sunlight once more. He’d ease along the cool passageways created by arches strangled by vines and creepers all a flower to sit on the edge of the slate pond that held the goldfish. Sleek and plump and gulping, they’d crowd to the surface when they saw him, gasping at the surface as if drowning, desperate for a crumb of bread from the crusts he kept in his pockets. Mottled orange, speckled white, golden sunset, peach fuzz, lemon cream skies, each fish its own pigmented fingerprint gliding about with the merest mention of movement from a casual tailfin, hanging suspended for seconds or hours as if on invisible hummingbird wings. The fish would scatter to the far corners of the pond as he plunged his hand into the water, rubbing it against the green-slimed walls to chase the tadpoles which swam like little black holes trailing tails of inky darkness.
From the pond he’d sprint over the mossy slate pathways into the dell, to dive through hedges of smouldering azalea and green banks of feathered fern, pausing only to eat the sour-sweet pink petals of the scattered wax begonias which always made his cheeks squirm but left him aching for more. He raced to the orange grove and remembered when his brother used to play orange wars with him before he met that girl and became serious, how they would find fallen, rotten fruit, carroty as a British tourist with a spray-on tan on one side, grey-green with mould on the other. The moss-covered, baby-elephant sized rocks that littered the grove like fallen fruit from a forgotten time provided perfect cover to hunt and dive away and hide.
The grove would shoot him around the edge of the tennis court, cracked like a thirsty drought-blighted land, and his feet would crunch over fallen pecan nuts, a lottery of rotten or tasty nuts easily cracked against each other in his palm. Then to the sun dial, once bronze but now covered in a stubborn green film, something mystic and ancient brought there from an antique land now only charted in dust encrusted history books bound in leather and sitting on shelves belonging to equally shabby explorers whiling away their paling days in the memory of donkey-paths and bare-breasted natives, musket-fire and creatures never before seen by a white man.
All his speed and scuffling would be forgotten as he came upon the workshop, a living, breathing place nestled in its helmet of indecisively pink, white and burgundy bougainvillea. Through the eyes of the twin grimy windows could be seen sparks from monstrous machines, making it seem like his grandfather had captured an angry storm cloud and was bending its energy to fulfil his stern will. Dust would laze heavily in the air outside, escaped through the workshop’s exhalations, the workshop a creature more alive than a thousand vivid stories, echoing more noise than a thousand summer cicadas on a thousand scorching days. He would stand in the open door of the workshop watching his grandfather work oblivious to his presence, the only thing existing to him the warm-sawn wood being shaped by one of a million but unique tools, all lathes and planes and hammers and screwdrivers, each used and useful, each known intimately by callused hands with nimble fingers. He would bend over a bench, adding a fine and minute touch to something, a slight whorl or nick, his machines, many-legged with spiders and centipedes, all gathered around him like Dr Moreau’s creatures straining for a better look. The machines sat steaming and radiating like light green toads in a sudden summer shower, smug from labour and the fine things they helped create. The boy’s eyes would swarm over the racks of odd tools, foreign things he couldn’t fathom until his grandfather would reach for one without looking, and finding it in its right place would somehow use this odd object to perform some miraculously simple yet vital task.
At times like these, his grandfather did not look unlike one of the tools or machines he so warmly knew. Wiry and bent, sweating from the heat of the furnace in the corner, goggled and aproned, odd shapes jutting out his curved back, his knuckles swollen to marbles, his pale shock of hair wisping with every little breeze, like an aging wing obtained from some snow fowl in his travels too long ago wrestling with the air to take flight once more. This tower of a man now shrunken and gnarled, seemingly a poor caricature of the man he once was, until his gaze met yours or he laughed uproariously. Then his back would straighten, his hair darken and his wasted muscles bulge, and he’d once more resemble that proud stranger in the photos that littered the house, the man who wore strapping army uniforms, who cried holding a child in his arms, who held a strange wife the boy could barely recognise as his grandmother high in his arms (a grandmother of such beauty that all of spring would seem dull and drab when she went about the garden).
If he could take his eyes off the wonder of watching his grandfather create with such affection, he would gaze at the banks of toys that lined every flat surface. Companies of tin men, moustached and stern, glittered in proud uniforms red as a sunset fox, boots polished to the sheen of a drongo’s wing. Pirouetting ladies in delicate lavender skirts sat demurely wearing cheeks dimpled in bashfulness, their joints smooth and graceful and bellowing laughter and dance despite their static condition. Steam engines sat sleek and quick upon short iron tracks, bellies filled with fire and coal dust stinging the eyes. All these and more sat in droves, each the product of such attention and affection they must all have been known and named and whispered to in gentle ways when no one else was listening.
His grandfather turned and saw him, smiled with a wrinkle of two ancient eyes, and without a word beckoned him over. In his hands was a tin steamboat, with a gleaming red hull, black chimney and bright blue cabins. It was still warm, and the boy held it as his grandfather applied the last brushstroke of paint to brown the deck wooden. He blew on it gently before taking it and setting in down on a stand for it to dry overnight.
‘Let’s see about some tea, my boy.’ He wiped his hands on his apron and ruffled his grandson’s hair before ushering him towards the door. Just before he swung the door closed, he pressed an innocuous little button, and somewhere in the workshop a little timer started counting the seconds, minutes, hours in patient little clicks.

The workshop sat quietly in the twilight. The furnace was snugly warm, enjoying its rest after a long day inhaling wood and exhaling heat and smoke fine as wisps of cloud. The smell of sawdust and fresh, hot tin was heavy on the air, and drying glue pooled like honey sucked of colour on heavy countertops. Tins of paint crowded together like a stunted rainbow, spilling some of their secrets in impossibly slow rivulets along the floor; emerald green whispered softly of forests where no man ventured, populated by fairies and unicorns and splendid magic; crimson and orange hinted that somewhere a phoenix might rise again from sombre ashes; cornflower yellow reminded the gloom that summer hair was joyous and beautiful and smelled of fresh lemons. The silence was pregnant and expectant, like the pause between a lightning strike and its resonant thunder when the air is torn like a grey sheet. A little pile of dust suddenly gusted to the air. There was a scurrying without any real audible or visible proof, just the knowledge that with each passing second, not everything was exactly where it had been a moment before. There was a slight shifting. Mouse-breaths stirred the air and a single ash rebelled briefly against gravity before landing on a desert table, shattering in a slow, crumbling motion, like a cluster of cells suddenly intent upon mitosis. There shuffled hidden feet just on the edge of hearing, a small army walking silently on gentle soles and arches with a deep knowledge of all that is quiet; the quiet of a gust of wind dusting dandelion heads of their sugar-white burden; the quiet of a graveyard respecting years of grief; the quiet of wings in flight, so high as to not exist. Soon, the maybe-sounds became audible and brushed against straining eardrums that quivered with the pleasure of fulfilment. Cupboards scratched as if boiling with weevils and drawers rattled like teeth in a skeletal jaw. Hushed whispers called out to each other in a timid gusting too shy to disturb the pyramids of dust in the corners of the room. Little tracks appeared where none had been before, like hieroglyphics carved in sandstone and prone to be changed and channelled and gouged even with the gentlest ministrations of a breeze. It was as if the air had grown hands fond of shaping and pinched the fine carpet of sawdust, prodding it to the shape of little feet and strange paws. Whatever tread so timorously did so like a somnambulant shadow, dreams manifested in a silent wandering.
The brushstroke concussions grew braver and the whisperings surrounded the room. Stifled giggles gave way to rowdy laughter and pitter-patterings from tiny feet fell like metallic rain. The clicking noise in the background suddenly stopped, giving way to the lifting and scratching of a gramophone. Speakers popped and cleared their throats. A new noise jostled the dust for space in the dry, warm air, and the giggling and excited whispers increased. Something beautiful was happening. Violins appeared and poured out their hearts like golden syrup thick on young taste buds. Hesitant cellos found their tongues and provided a sonorous background for the sawing violins to rest upon. A piano gently percussed to the rhythm of falling rain, now fast, now slow, now bold, now shy. A kettle drum thought of clouds colliding as a snare dropped a proud collection of marbles scattering to a wooden floor. The scratching and rustling of the cupboards gave birth to creakings and slidings, and little heads poked out and looked around. Long shadows cast simple maps to toes that edged around corners and became fluent in motion. Wooden limbs clattered onto and over tables and benches, and metal appendages thudded dully behind them. Wooden men with forever smiles stiffly knelt in front of shapely women, with equally eternal expressions of mock shyness. The painted grins were no less real for their inability to express anything else; delight was heavy on the air. Red uniforms glowed with pride as loving creations paired off and entered into an embrace of motion and swirling and laughter. Those not yet finished, without eyes or a limb, were guided by loving hands and snickered nervously at the marvels unseen but felt, or a clumsy step tutted with a smile by a partner. Dust was kicked up into the air to drift like a pale snow, and the footprints were of a running and dashing and moving and swaying. Inflexible hips moved just the same, as legs clutched soaring notes and allowed themselves to be led as the music so dictated, as if guided by invisible strings. There was not a sad face amongst them, not a frown or a grimace, and minor chords were coy as a young girl holding her skirts, ripe with beauty, declaring feelings long hidden to a restless boy. The music swelled and burst glittering with each fresh quaver. The incomplete toys that stumbled and laughed, foretold a future of firecrackers and puppies owned by naughty boys, though for now they were works in progress, art not signed. The dancing in the workshop was without burden, without explanation and without fear. It was freedom given motion, joy given an outlet, life given limbs of wood and joints of steel. They danced in perfect rhythm, though each experimented with foxtrots and waltzes, rumba and salsa, tango and bop.
How the xylophone tinged and pinged! How the laughter leapt on the air and rode it like a current! Each couple clung like sticky centrifuges and lips no balm could soften brushed each other, led unbidden to meet by the music as it roved around the room like thermals drifting and falling. The scattered steam trains blew jets of smoke and shrieked their whistles raucously in an aural elbowing as their tin soldier friends spun their partners like dervishes. Two ladies watching the dancing from a distance curtseyed before the steam ship, introducing themselves with a giggle before scattering behind a paint tin, like schoolgirls teasing each other about the new boy in class.
As suddenly as it had started, the music reached a crescendo and fell silent. Breathless bodies bowed stiffly and kissed proffered hands, and two by two the toys retired to cupboards, draws, shadowed grottos where for the eternity of daylight they could hold each other in a touch only couples long in love can understand. There they would wait once more for the music.
There was always sawdust in the air.

//////// End

A gentle pause

Grandfathers aren't just workshops and war stories and wise fingers. Grandmothers aren't the sum of spectacles and roast potatoes and talcum powder. They are spring wrapped in autumn and winter, grass clippings and young blooms stuck away in rotting Hessian bags or pressed flowers hidden on dusty shelves between the pages of crumbling tomes. They are men like yesterday’s news, women like stale teacakes. They were young and foolish once too – still are – frivolous in ribbons and trapped in the accumulated prune skins of age. They were us once. They still are.

The Antique Shop - Part 9

I swear people in China can hear my sigh of relief. The pages feel dry and brittle but they’re still intact. That beautiful, steady hand is as clear as ever. I run my fingers over the words. Such intimate, delicate declarations. I have to read them later. I need to.
I stand up shakily and hold the box tightly to my chest. One of the firemen comes up to me and takes my shoulder. He helps me pick my way through the mess and out the flat. He speaks to me gently but I can’t hear him. I feel numb. Devastated but relieved. Confused, lost, but hopeful.
Before I know it I’m back on the stretcher. The girl is gone. The paramedic shines a light into my eyes and asks me questions. I give him one-word answers. Eventually he just pats my arm and packs his stuff away. Right now I want nothing more than to drift into a deep, languid sleep.
- Excuse me?
I ignore the voice and close my eyes. If you can see them they can see you, so if the reverse is true then. . .
- Sir?
A hand taps my shoulder. I open my eyes and look into the face of the cop who was talking to the old lady earlier. I raise my eyebrows for him to continue.
- I need to ask you some questions.
I nod my head.
- Do you have any idea what happened here?
- Uh, an explosion?
The cop rolls his eyes.
- You know what I mean. Do you know why your flat exploded?
I shake my head.
- I have no idea. . .
- It was a pretty big blast. It’s not the kind of thing we usually associate with an accident.
- I don’t know what to tell you. I left the flat this morning and everything was in one piece. I came back just now and everything I own is destroyed. Your guess is as good as mine.
- Do you know anyone who would want you hurt or dead?
- I don’t know anyone, let alone anyone who would want to do anything to me.
- Are you not from Cape Town?
- No, Durban. I’ve been here a few weeks. I hadn’t even finished unpacking.
- What are you holding?
- It’s nothing. It’s private.
- Mind if I take a look?
- Uh, yes, I mind very much.
I hold the box tighter.
- With respect, sir, there has just been a n explosion. Right now we don’t know why. It’s not in your best interests to hide things from the police. It might. . . colour. . . our opinion of you.
- So I’m a suspect?
- I’m just saying you should do your utmost to cooperate.
I clench my jaw and look away.
- The box, sir?
- It’s nothing, it’s just letters, okay!?
- I don’t want to ask again.
I give him the box and swear under my breath. It’s been months since I swore. He prises it open and empties it out onto the stretcher. I cringe as the ancient pages fold awkwardly.
- Could you be careful please? Those are freaking old!
- Sir, kindly let me do my job.
He flicks through the pages without a hint of compassion. A few pages drop to the ground which he doesn’t bother to pick up. I have to grip the edge of the stretcher tightly to stop myself from freaking out and kicking him in the groin. Every now and then he grunts or chuckles as he reads something. I can tell it’s theatrical. He finally clumps all the pages together and stuffs them back in the box. He hands it back to me and smiles.
- You’re right, it was nothing. Private, too.
I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you.
- Before you go anywhere, let me know where you’ll be staying in case I have more questions.
He saunters off before I can think of a cutting reply. I’ll probably wake up screaming something witty at two in the morning. I open the box and gently take out all the pages. I pick up the ones on the floor and blow on them lightly. They don’t look too dirty. I stack them neatly and put them back in the box. I feel my eyes tear up. I hate crying, but once I start I can’t stop it. I feel so violated. Everything I own is destroyed, and I my most intimate secret has just been divulged and laughed at by someone who is supposed to help people in distress.
- Young man, do you need a place to stay?
It’s the old lady again. I wipe my eyes. I take a deep breath.
- Thank you, but I. . . I’ll get a hotel room. I have some thinking to do.
- All right, but if you change your mind you know where to find me. I’m in flat number 18.
She smiles at me and pinches my cheek and I can’t help but smile. There’s nothing like the kindness of an old lady. I stand up slowly and stare at the hole in the building that used to be my flat. I’ll come back tomorrow and see if I can salvage anything. Right now I need to get to a hotel, brush my teeth (and tongue and throat and gums and wherever else that vomit taste is still hiding) and sleep. I walk past the cop.
- I’m going to find a hotel. You’re a cop. Finding me should be easy.
He just stares at me and waves his hand dismissively.
I don’t remember the drive to the Holiday Inn. I don’t remember checking in to a room. I don’t remember showering, brushing my teeth, shaving, dressing. I don’t remember getting into bed. I don’t remember opening the box. But here I am, the pages spread out before me, my security blanket in my times of greatest need.
I start reading.

© William Edgcumbe

The Antique Shop - Part 8

I’ve never felt so out of control in my life. My body feels like it’s turning in on itself, like my oesophagus will burst out of my mouth and envelop me so that I look like a giant, glistening sausage. I drop to my knees and vomit until there is nothing left to bring up, and after a few extra agonising dry heaves my stomach stops bucking my body further towards the ground. I stand up shakily and wipe my mouth on my sleeve. My mouth tastes foul; I’m ten-years-old and have gastro; I’m an awkward 17-year-old, drunk out of my mind at my matric dance, eyes glazed, conscience numbed. Since then, I’ve had a few “worst nights of my life”.
- Are you okay?
The hand on my shoulder is warm and tender. I realise it’s the first time I’ve been touched caringly by another person in months. I miss it terribly.
I try to speak but no words come out. Words usually gush so easily. I look at the person next to me. I recognise the old lady who lives down the corridor. I’ve greeted her a few times I think. She smiles at me, and her face is all motherly tenderness and homely comfort.
- Wha-
- Shshshshhh… don’t you worry. Let’s get you some care.
She leads me over to an ambulance. A paramedic is looking into someone’s eyes. They look a little sooty and shaken.
- This is the young man who lives in the flat. I think he needs some attention.
The paramedic gently sits me down on the stretcher next to the girl he’s examining. I notice a thin cut above her left eye, and she has a big lump on her forehead. I look away when her eyes flick to me; I hate being caught examining people. I look instead at the old lady. She’s talking to a cop. They both turn, and he follows her finger as she points at me. He nods slowly. It could be a “Yes, he looks like our man” nod, or a “Shame, poor guy just had everything he owns blown up” nod.
- Oh crap!
I’m up and running before the words leave my lips. Someone tries to reach out and catch my arm but I brush their hand away. I hear shouting but no words register. I leap over the debris cluttering the building entrance and jump the lobby steps two at a time. I’m on the landing. I’m on another set of stairs. Landing. Stairs. Landing. Corridor. My door isn’t there anymore. The entrance hall/kitchen is a blast hole. My toaster looks like it got some of its own treatment and lies dead where the front door would be. The corridor wall is black, fingers of soot spread in every direction and chucks of plaster are missing where bits of brick and door shot into it. I step into the wreckage that is my life and don’t notice the two fire fighters picking through the debris and occasionally dousing the odd flame with extinguishers. It’s amazing how in a flat so small you can feel so lost. I’m missing all my points of reference – my coffee table, my CD rack, my bed. Everything is a smouldering, crumbled tangle of wood, cement and plastic.
I start scrabbling frantically where my bed used to be. I cry out as an ember melts into my hand. They must be here. They must be here. They must be here. They must be here. They must be here. I dig with the rhythm of my thoughts. One fire fighter makes a move to stop me, but the other holds him back and shakes his head.
My hands are bleeding and my arms completely black when I finally find it. The tin box has a huge dent in it and looks like it’s gone a few rounds with a pit bull but to my relief it doesn’t look like it’s been breached. It’s still hot from the fire, but my hands are so burnt I don’t really register the heat. The latch is gone, and when I try to lift the lid it won’t budge. I put it on the floor and whack the lid with a piece of wood. On the third strike it pops up. I close my eyes, say a quick prayer and lift the lid.

© William Edgcumbe

The Antique Shop - Part 7

If she recognises me, she doesn’t show it. I look away and pretend to write something in my notes. What the hell is going on here? I feel like I’ve been duped in some elaborate game. I try to look at her indirectly. I focus on the men she’s with so that she’s in my peripheral vision but won’t make eye contact with me. One of the men, introduced as Mr Miya, starts speaking. He has a slight hare lip and a confident voice. He has the look of someone who knows and gets what he wants. He pauses every few sentences for the translator to speak. I immediately feel sorry for him. It can’t be more than 20 degrees but he’s sweating so much droplets are running down his face and dropping from his nose. I’ve never seen someone so nervous. His English is pretty broken but he conveys the gist of Mr Miya’s speech. Every now and again he pauses for a few seconds as his tongue fumbles with the unfamiliar English words, and when Mr Miya feels he is taking too long, he reprimands him sharply in Japanese. The hostility in his voice doesn’t need a translator. I wince as I imagine the translator’s knees being broken later in an underground parking lot somewhere.
The speech comes to an end and everyone claps dutifully. The translator moves behind everyone and dabs at his face with a handkerchief. His fringe is slicked against his forehead. Mr Miya and the Minister shake hands and smile to the flashing of cameras. I hate photo ops; the overlong handshakes, the gormless smiles, the little quips followed by manufactured chuckles. The canned laughter of the political arena. We all clap after the photos are taken.
- Who is that woman who came in with the Japanese delegates?
The journalist next to me shrugs his shoulders.
- Damned if I know.
A short guy with immaculate hair and blindingly white teeth announces that there’s breakfast outside and that the budget vote speech will commence shortly afterwards in the Old Assembly Chamber. My stomach grumbles, but I remember the boerewors breath the security guard breathed all over me and my hunger wilts. I settle for a cup of coffee and watch the stampede for the breakfast buffet. If there’s one thing that’s a great leveller, it’s free food. Lowly aides and deputy ministers pack around the buffet like warthogs at a scant waterhole. Tailored suit pants groan and stretch as their wearers bend over to choose food. I spot the guys who don’t like to admit their weight, squeezing size 46 legs into size 42 pants. The poor stitches which have to hold those seams together…
I try to spot the old lady without giving it away that I’m looking for her. I flick my eyes across the room casually. As I finish my coffee I see her leave the room and walk down a small corridor. I pretend to answer my phone and make a show of not being able to hear the person who called me and walk towards the same corridor. Once in there I see her turn left down another. I take a deep breath and decide to follow her. It’s not particularly clever following important and possibly shady people around the halls of parliament, but I can always use the excuse that I’m looking for the loo or something. I need a photo of this woman. If no one can tell me who she is, I’ll need to do some sleuthing of my own. I notice that she has stopped and is on a call of her own. I stick my phone out in front of me at arm’s length like a middle-aged person trying to focus on the small screen and pretend to send an sms. I take a few pictures of her as I get close. They’re pretty blurry, but not bad considering the yellow light of the corridor and the fact that I can’t stand still. Her eyes follow me as I walk past but I don’t look at her. Her voice is clipped and sharp, and she is clearly not happy with whoever she’s speaking too.
- ...unacceptable! I delivered it myself precisely so this wouldn’t happen.
A pause. I slow down to hear more.
- I don’t care that the street was busy! Your job was to make sure there was no interference. You clearly didn’t do it. Explosions that go off in the wrong place make for messy business. You’re damn lucky your family...
I turn another corner and lose her words in the echo. This woman is clearly not someone to stuff with. I realise that I can’t really go back the way I came without looking suspicious, but the corridors and rooms I keep passing all look the same and it’s not long before I’m lost. I play the bumbling visitor and ask a harried clerk how to get to the Old Assembly Chamber.
I arrive at the Chamber’s gallery at the same time as the other journalists, who nod their heads in my direction in recognition. Parliament has been underway for a while it seems, because most people in the gallery and on the floor look to be in varying stages slumber except for the odd earnest or outraged MP. For a while I let myself enjoy the beauty of the sage assembly, the highly polished wooden walls, the exquisite roof, the rich green chairs, and reflect on the history that’s been written here, until the heckling from the MPs below brings me back. Parliament in person appears to be just as dreadful as on TV. A person from the opposition stands up to speak and is heckled and maligned the whole way through, much to the disgust of the speaker. She finishes and someone from the ruling party then speaks, which is the cue for the opposition speaker and her cronies to do the very same thing. If any of the dissent from either side was vaguely interesting or based on anything other than simple churlishness it would be okay, but it just seems like people heckle for the very sake of it.
I look at the chairperson and silently will him to say something, because it just seems that everyone is being obtuse out of some warped sense of political duty and party pride, rather than listening with a rational ear to what the other side has to say. After twenty minutes of this I’m just about ready to scream, when the somnolent chairperson awakes from whatever he was dreaming about.
- Honourable MPs, there must please be order.
There isn’t much authority to his tone, and after a light chuckle he returns to whatever his mind was dwelling on before he lifted the veil on it to speak. The MPs go right back to cackling and insulting each other. I manage to sit through another hour of this before deciding not to wait for the speech as I have a copy of it anyway. Plus I feel like I’m wasting my time when there are more pressing questions about who that old lady is and precisely what I’ve gotten myself into.
Leaving Parliament is mercifully easy and it feels good to be on the street again amongst real people who don’t feel the compulsion to smile for the sake of it when someone of a higher rank says something resembling a joke.
I need time to think and muse over the last 24 hours. As I inch my way through the city traffic and the buildings start to thin, I idly notice a black wisp of smoke up ahead. The traffic is even worse today than usual. It takes me 45 minutes to travel the six kilometres to the intersection where I turn off for my flat. I don’t give much thought to the smoke up ahead, or the sirens which are close by. It’s only as I turn onto my road that I begin to wonder what all the fuss is about. I don’t have to wonder for long.
Before me is my building. Where my third story flat used to be is a blackened shell with flames dancing merrily from the fuel my only possessions must be providing. The ground below is littered with chunks of concrete and burning debris which fire-fighters are dousing with foam. I get out of my car and vomit on the street.

© William Edgcumbe

The Antique Shop - Part 6

At least the little work I do is vaguely interesting. A magazine emailed me about covering the signing of a charter and budget vote speech in parliament today. At first the very word parliament made me shiver (Parliament Live was about the only thing that ever seemed to be on TV when I had school holidays. The scourge of not having M-Net.) but now that I think about it I’m really interested to see what goes down in person. I’m not particularly interested in politics, but to visit the halls where laws have been written and the entire history of South Africa has been shaped is a real opportunity.
I put on the one collared shirt and tie I own. I carefully slip the tie over my head so as not to undo the same Windsor knot that it’s been in for the last few years. I never could quite get the hang of it. My brother did this particular knot for me just before my graduation. My brother-
-I’ve tried not think about him or anyone else in my family but it just can’t be done. Everything I own, every association I have is wound through at least one of them in some way. No matter what subject flits through my mind, there is always an aspect that relates to them, even if only colliding at a tangent. I can’t think about this now. I’m going to be late. It’s nice to have an excuse to be somewhere, otherwise I’d end up sitting in my flat feeling sorry for myself.
I hate running late, but I seem to manage it every time. There’s no parking anywhere near the entrance to Parliament and I circle the block five times before I spot someone pulling out of a space in a little side alley. I run to the entrance and inside I’m met with classic bureaucratic lack of interest. Running the metal detector at the door are two portly police officers whose arteries have surely seen better days. The one doesn’t look up – I think she’s sleeping, but her partner looks up at me with bored eyes and holds my gaze for what must be fifteen seconds.
– Yes?
I baulk initially, because it only seems obvious that I want to come in.
– I’m here for the media briefing with the Minister of Minerals and Energy?
He sighs deeply and I can smell potato and boerewors. Any hunger pangs I might have developed for the next few hours wilt.
– Plees put all of your contents of your pockets in vis tray and step fru vis metal detector.
His accent makes me think of being trapped in Richards Bay just hours before a Steve Hofmeyr concert. I empty out my pockets and walk through the metal detector. The sleeping officer has managed to drool on her right shoulder. It’s a heart-warming sight and lifts my spirits just a little. I come to a bank of clerks sitting behind a long desk and join the queue. As soon as one of the clerks is free I walk up to him.
– Hi, I’m here for the media briefing?
– Sir, would you please wait to be called?
The guy behind the desk is the antithesis of the crack squad monitoring the metal detector. His suit is immaculate, his moustache trimmed to exactly the same width all the way along his top lip and he wears his glasses on the tip of his nose. I catch a whiff of the-lowly-clerk-on-a-power-trip and regret being next in line.
– Uh, okay.
I walk back to the front of the queue and turn around.
– Next.
I feel my blood begin to boil at his pettiness and walk over to him again.
– Name? Company? Identification?
I strain to answer all his questions politely and hand over my ID book. I try not to show my impatience – I’m already about half an hour late, but I know that as soon as he senses I’m in a rush he’ll be only too stoked to hold me up even more. He squints at my ID book, then at me, then at my book, then at me again. I’m sixteen in my ID photo, but not much has changed except for the patchy fluff I charitably call a beard when I look in the mirror. I decide to make light conversation to butter him up.
– Funny picture, hey?
– Sir, there is nothing funny about government documents.
I sigh and settle in for the long haul. More people are queuing up behind me, all looking harassed. I wonder if they’re also late for the briefing. The administrator doesn’t fail to notice that a longer queue has formed and his thin lips widen just a centimetre or two in what is barely recognisable as a smile.
He s-l-o-w-l-y opens a book, tears off a slip and copies the details from my ID onto it. I’ve seen calligraphers give less attention to their work. He finally closes my book and hands it and the slip to me without a word.
– Next.
As soon as I’m out of his line of sight I break into a trot. I go up a small flight of stairs and am greeted by yet another metal detector. With all the x-rays I’ll be passing through today I’m sure I’ll glow in the dark tonight. I wander through a few passages before finally stumbling across the meeting room I’m supposed to be in. I slip through the door and take a seat next to the wall. The Minister of Minerals and Energy fixes his eyes on me from across the table and I quickly look away. With just one glance he made me feel like a shamed schoolboy speaking to a headmaster after being caught cheating in an exam.
The room isn’t big – it has just enough space to fit a twenty-seater conference table, though there are people sitting on chairs against the wall on either side. I take out my notepad and start jotting down what the minister says. I don’t really have any context for what I’m supposed to be reporting on, but thankfully someone hands me a press release and copy of the budget speech the Minister will be delivering just now. I glance at the people in the room. Some are clearly journalists – no matter what events I cover, you can always spot the other journalists because they look like total slobs. I’m not particularly debonair, but at least I give a fraction of a damn about my appearance. Journalists are that special breed of person who know that they’re there to report, not to impress, and so can wear whatever the hell they like. They don’t have to answer to anyone they interview and use their independence as a license to act as they please. Sitting on the end of the table next to the minister are two or three textbook examples of reporters. I count one greasy ponytail, two stained t-shirts, one collared shirt only buttoned half way up with a gold chain nestled in some stunningly lavish chest hair, and three unshaven chins. I just know that as soon as they all stand up, at least one of them will be wearing parachute material tracksuit pants, probably lavender in colour.
Each journo asks questions which lie somewhere between probing and obtuse for the sake of it. They speak to the Minister in sneering tones of disdain, and I notice the lackeys around the Minister flinch each time a question is asked. I can tell that they wished they had the impunity to speak to him so frankly. The Minister seems unperturbed and answers each question confidently. It’s difficult not feel a little awe at the ease with which he responds to questions which accuse him of gross incompetence.
Everyone else in the room looks thoroughly bored. They’re all well dressed and look to belong to some tier of government or other. One guy picks his nose. Another doodles vapidly on a piece of paper. I suddenly realise that I should be taking notes and start scribbling so furiously that I don’t notice more people enter the room. It’s only as I hear Japanese that I look up in surprise. The Minister is shaking hands with three Japanese men. As they talk and a fourth man translates, I notice an older woman who must have come in with them. She is wearing a black suit and has cold, dead eyes. I know her from somewhere. I’m sure of it.
She flicks her eyes to me and I know where I’ve seen her before. She’s the old lady from the antique shop.

© William Edgcumbe

The Antique Shop - Part 5

It’s at least another hour before I fall asleep. I keep seeing that poor guy’s face when he was getting beaten up. There was such a strange look in his eyes, like a kind of resigned fear. I think he knew his fate the moment he snatched that bag. I think that despite how inexorable the result, it was a decision he had to make. I wonder how desperate he is. I wonder if he’s just an ordinary guy whose every effort at making a living has failed and he had to turn to crime or slowly starve. I wonder if we’d be kinder to criminals if we knew their stories. But then again, maybe he is a scumbag. Maybe he’s lazy. Maybe he would feel nothing plunging a blade between someone’s ribs for a cell phone. It’s so difficult to be truly empathetic, because you just never know who deserves it. Though who’s to say who deserves what? Those jocks that beat him up have probably date-raped girls before, drunkenly kicked the crap out of a gay dude or slept around behind their girlfriends’ backs. Which crime is greater – that of necessity or of simple wantonness? Why can’t there ever be clear-cut answers?
I love this country, but it’s so troubling sometimes. It was a small thing, but a while back I was driving along and saw a guy who’d blown a tire on the side of the road. He pleaded with me to stop but I dropped my eyes and drove right past because I’ve heard too many stories about blown tires being setups for hijackings. It feels like no one can feel free to be kind here anymore because the risk is just too great. Or is it? Is it worth living in a place where simple acts of help don’t exist? Maybe those very small acts are completely worth the risk of theft or death. Without them, we live in such a dehumanised place.
Ever since my life got turned upside down I feel like I’ve been swimming through jelly. Nothing seems real any more. What I wouldn’t give to be ten years old again, scuffing my feet outside, scurrying up trees, riding my bike like the devil around the garden, hurling insults and sand clogs at my brother. Where did that child go? At what moment did he scamper away and leave me suddenly older, self-aware? I guess there’s been too much tragedy recently to even warrant at guessing an answer. I think about reading the letters again. I told myself I wouldn’t, but right now I need them. Fortunately before I can, sleep comes and gently carries me away somewhere else, somewhere deep into the night, somewhere sacred, mine, where sadness cannot touch me.

I wake with the sun on my face. I must have forgotten to close the curtains in the night. There are two tall trees outside, and the sun shines through them like a dandelion in negative. Why is the sun shining? It’s unfair that it should be so bright when I feel like this. It’s not right that there are families eating breakfast together now, or newlyweds delightedly surprised to wake up next to each other on honeymoon. I scold myself for thinking like a morbid, self-obsessed teenager carrying on about how unfair life is and how no one has it so bad.
But I can’t help indulging in my mood a little bit. My flat is so quiet. It feels dead. It makes none of the noises a living house should: a cupboard banging closed; a runny nose being blown loudly; the clatter of spoon on bowl as cereal is eaten; the scuttling of a dog’s claws on floor tiles. There’s just my breathing. I hold my breath to allow the sounds of the city to slowly make themselves known. They come to me in tendrils. From under the door I hear distant steps as someone down the corridor leaves for work. Someone in the flat next door bumps something against the wall. The windows rattle gently as a truck gears down in the distance. There is life here. It’s timid, different, but it’s here.
The alarm on my phone breaks the peace and I jump in fright. Time to face the day.

© William Edgcumbe

The Antique Shop - Part 4

Okay, so I don’t hate this city. It’s more of a mild dislike. It’s beautiful, sure, but in my opinion there are too many people walking around wearing scarves and drinking box wine obfuscating (my favourite word) about crappy artists. Everyone here looks like they play in a drug-addled indie band. We can’t all be ordinary I guess.
My flat is a mess. I moved in three weeks ago, and with each day that goes by my “I’m still sorting through my stuff” excuse holds less water. Or it would if anyone ever came to visit. The loneliness of a new city is oppressive, but I can’t really complain about that seeing as I came here to be anonymous. I wonder if I’m that guy – there’s always one – everyone sees and takes a little pity on sitting alone in a coffee shop reading his book, or watching a movie by himself. Solitude, the social sin.
I clear my coffee table of the tottering piles of cds and books for the five stolen pieces and look at them properly for the first time. Piece of Contriband #1 is a photo of an old ship. I flip it over and “Ovington Court, 27 November 1940, 4 died that night, he was one of them” is written in a beautiful flowing hand. A woman’s handwriting I should think. The way the letters loop into each other look like an intricate dance. There’s something very sad about the detachment of what’s written, the selection of facts and the impersonal mention of someone the writer knew. I put the photo put face down on the table.
Contraband #2 is an old art deco clock. It’s small, about the size of both my fists and surprisingly heavy. It’s peach and turquoise, with a stylised swallow painted onto the clockface. There’s a small chip on one of the corners. I notice the mechanism is working. I compare it to the time on my microwave which is plugged in on the floor next to the couch. Surprisingly, it’s correct. Not bad. I put it next to my bed.
Contraband #3 is one of those fancy teaspoons old ladies collect. It has a family crest it with some kind of latin motto. Man, these things are dime-a-dozen at all the antique places I visited today.
Contraband #4 is a locket without a chain. It looks like it’s made of silver and gleams prettily, even in the yellow light of my flat. I try to open it, but the latch is stiff and my bitten nails can’t get a grip on it properly. I’ll come back to it later.
Contraband #5 is dainty little teacup. It doesn’t have a saucer. I turn it over and there’s something written underneath, but it’s pretty faded. I’m feeling a bit too rattled to try decipher it, so I put the teacup down and sink back into the couch.
I don’t know what to do. I was hoping one of these things would have an owner’s name on it, or at least some kind of vague clue as to how I could find them. I feel like such an idiot. I could have offered to buy them from the old lady instead and then just given them back to her in the street or something, and I would have saved myself a whole lot of trouble and a whole lot of elaborate fantasies of birdshot turning my chest into a pulpy sieve.
I close my eyes and realise how tired I am. I think I’ll just have a quick snooze---
---a scratching at the door wakes me. My stomach sinks into the springs of the couch. So my number’s up is it? I can’t imagine how the police have found me. Surely stealing a handful of antiques isn’t that big a deal that they’d send out a squad to hunt for me in the midle of the night? I adjust my weight and the couch groans loudly. The scratching stops and I hear footsteps hurry away. I hold my breath and strain to hear if there’s any more movement. I get up slowly and in my stealth manage to kick the table and then a stained coffee mug, which rattles over the parquet floor. I walk slowly to the door and can’t help but have visions of Anton Chigurh waiting there with his cattlegun and looking at me in his bored but somehow fascinated way before asking me to hold still… I shiver. I put my ear to the door but can’t hear anything. I unlock it painfully slowly and then turn the latch. I inch the door open and stare into a sliver of the passage but can’t see anything. I take a deep breath, open the door completely and step outside.
Of course, there’s no one there. No Anton Chigurh, nobody. I decide to try bluff anyone who might be hiding there.
– I can see you you idiot. Come out.
The plan is to make my voice deep and intimidating, but I balldrag on idiot and just sound stupid. The only way anyone who might be hiding would give themselves away now is through laughter.
I feel like a dweeb. I obviously watch too many movies. I go inside, turn off the lights and flop into my unmade bed. The art deco clock says it’s 2am. Crap, I have to be up in four hours. I know this is going to be a bad day already. I can feel it.

© William Edgcumbe

The Antique Shop - Part 3

I can’t go back the way I came. That shopkeeper is probably standing outside his store with a sawn-off and begging me to return to the scene of the crime. He’s probably fantasising about the look my face will make as the bore thuds into my torso, narrowly missing the stolen pieces which he’ll carefully pry out of my lifeless hands, clean up, and sell to the buyers already waiting in his store. As a final humiliation, my bladder will empty itself. I shiver as I think about facing that evil bastard again. I make a quick vow to never enter another second-hand store again, antique or otherwise.
I decide to hole up somewhere, which essentially means going back to my flat and trying to figure out what to do next. At this stage the most attractive option is to throw away these damn antiques and brain myself until I forget about the whole incident. When I peek out into Long Street again the foot traffic is thinning, which means I’ll be easily spotted, my mind screams.
I hide the antiques under my shirt and hope no one will notice the odd bulges and my guilty expression. I turn left into Long Street, away from my would-be murderer with the itchy trigger finger and walk quickly, avoiding the impulse to run. The hair on the back of my neck stands up and it’s all I can do to not turn around and scan the faces behind me for the one that will scream and shout…
– That’s him there!
– Someone stop him!
– He’s getting away!
My heart freezes, but before I can tell my jellied legs to start running someone slams into me and sprawls to the floor. I stumble but stay on my feet, and turn around just as four guys scoot around me and dive onto the hapless guy before he can get up. A wave of relief washes over me instantly, but the joy breaks as I see the first blow landed. One guy has wrestled a handbag from the guy on the floor and the other three hold him down, one sitting on his back with his right leg twisted behind him, one holding his arms and the other his neck. He doesn’t seem to be struggling, but that doesn’t stop the guy holding his neck from punching him in the mouth. The guy who’s just taken the handbag from him kicks him in the ribs and he cries out. I wince at the dull thud it makes. It’s the same noise that bullet made when my dad shot a baboon on his farm – to this day I can hear the wheeze from its ruined throat as it gasped for air which bubbled through the blood in its lungs before my brother shot it in the head with a pistol.
– See what you get, ey?
– Hold his arm tighter bru!
– He’s not going anywhere.
– Hey, someone call a cop.
– Ugh, I’ve got his blood on my shirt. YOU TRYING TO GIVE ME AIDS?!
– Where’s your Mandela to protect you?
Everyone in the street has stopped what they’re doing and watch the man get the crap beaten out of him. It really is this thief’s unlucky day. These guys have probably been looking for a good brawl for a few days and this guy came to them like a gift. All four are smiling sadistically. Back-sitter gives the man’s leg a sharp twist. Neck-holder lifts his head and bangs it hard into the pavement. Bag-holder spits on his head. Even if someone else there is as disgusted as I am, no one says or does anything. I’m about to say something when Back-sitter looks at me.
– Shot for stopping this black bastard. Thought he was gonna get away.
He smiles at me and I feel sick. Guilty. Party to the crime. I wonder if these guys would have beaten me as much if they’d caught me. I guess catching me wouldn’t have given an outlet to their latent racism. I turn around and my head feels light. I stumble through the gawking crowd – some are visibly repulsed, others entranced by the reality show they’ll talk about at braais and work for the next few weeks. I need to get out of here right now.
My car is only about 200 metres further down the road, but it feels like hours before I finally reach it. I’m not even inside before the car guard is hassling me for change. I’m not used to how aggressive Cape Town car guards are. In Durban they seem to be grateful for what they get, but down here they count your tip in front of you and tap on your window if they’re not happy. Giving these guys a tip feels like you’re handing over protection money to a mobster. I scratch around in my ashtray and groan – all I have is a couple of 5c pieces and a R1 coin. This guy is going to hate me. With him hovering next to me I can’t even process the events of the last hour. I put the antiques on the passenger seat and start the car. I want to tear off as soon as the coins land in this dude’s hands; before he can bang on my window and demand more. I wait for a gap in the traffic, throw the coins at the car guard and speed off before I can see his reaction.
The road is busy and I’m not too familiar with the route back to my flat yet, but I haven’t driven two kilometres before my hands start shaking and I pull over into a petrol station. Whenever I blink I can see the fear in that bag-snatcher’s eyes and the gleeful smiles of his attackers. But what scares me is that even though I feel sick, I’m still relieved that it was him and not me. It seems like this morning is all about being ashamed and powerless. I feel like such a tool. Not only did I not help that lady, I’m pretty sure that if I’d said something to those jocks other people would have backed me up and the guy would have been spared some broken ribs. I hate myself sometimes.
I take a deep breath and pull out onto the road again. What I wouldn’t do now for a strong cup of coffee and the tranquility of my bedroom back at home in Durban. I hate this city.

*This ball is gonna keep on rolling*
© William Edgcumbe

The Antique Shop - Part 2

The objects are just too dirty to have been found at the back of a cupboard and cleaned to be sold. There is a wornness to them which indicates use and intimacy. They have the look of things loved and cared for, which have been looked upon with affection every day. There is a far off dreaminess to her eyes as she looks at each object on the counter. Her eyes reflect a thousand memories, a million associations. She runs her fingers tenderly over each piece. Her eyes darken.
– I’m not sure if you would take these? What do you think?
Her is voice is a little flat, and inside I beg the shopkeeper to say he can’t sell any of them. He picks up each object in turn, glaring at them critically, accusing them of pretending value.
– I’ll give you R100 for the lot. There aren’t many people interested in this kind of stuff. I can maybe find a buyer for one or two of the pieces. Best offer.
His tone doesn’t invite bargaining, and her face blanches at what he’s offering, though she quickly masks it with a smile.
One he coldly returns.
I can see the battle she’s waging, weighing up their loss to the money she so badly needs. The shopkeeper can see it too, and is enjoying himself immensely.
– I rather thought they’d be worth more than that. Are you quite sure that’s all they’re worth?
– I’m sure. I run a business here. I have overheads. It’s the best I can do.
It breaks my heart as I picture her going through the last of her treasures at home, weeping over each one quietly. It really hits home. I remember my own mother selling off trinkets from around the house so she could buy groceries when I was young, though I never saw the ritual on this end. I’m suddenly grateful I never had to see her gamely finding the courage to sell off another precious possession to one day regret, this calculation of short-term gain versus long-term loss. I’m glad I never had to witness the shame a shopkeeper like this would make her feel. Though maybe if I had seen it I would have grown up less selfish, helped out around the house some more. My cheeks redden with guilt, and I’m embarrassed that I’m witness to a moment so hurtful as this.
– Well, Christmas is such an expensive time of year. Every little bit helps.
She affects a cheerful chuckle, but her back is rigid. I wonder if she is fighting back tears? The shopkeeper rings it up and hands her a couple of notes. He’s smiling. She takes his money without a word and walks out the shop. I notice that she doesn’t look at the possessions she just left behind. I feel completely ashamed that I watched the entire transaction go through without stepping in and somehow making a difference. I feel like a teenager again, rooted to the floor at school as a bully picks on me, dreaming of saying something clever to say, but only offering my silence and the shame of being the nerdy kid. We all play our roles.
The shopkeeper’s chuckling brings me back to the present. He looks more vile now than he did when I walked in.
– How much?
Was that my voice?
– Huh?
Before I know it I’m standing in front of the counter.
– How much for all the stuff that lady just brought in?
He arches an eyebrow and looks me up and down.
– It’s hard to say. I’ll have to compare it to some of the pieces I already have in stock. A grand, grand and a half?
My face feels hot. It’s such a small act in the great scheme of things, but this injustice makes me feel a rage I’ve never known before. It’s the same feeling I get when I watch a movie or read a book which chronicles people being taken advantage of, leaving me angry and despairing but frustrated in my inability to do anything. That frustration, however, is a stranger now.
– I’ll give you R100.
– Who do y--
– I’m not bargaining.
He looks me up and down, measures me for my fairly unathletic body and weighs it against the look in my eye.
– What are you going to do, catch up to that lady and give her back her things? Will that help? She’ll just flog them to another place as soon as she needs groceries again. You come in here ogling all the things in my shop. How do you think most of it got here? Desperate people like her. It’s the way it is.
He stiffens and stares me in the eye.
– Now, unless you have a grand, get the hell out of my shop.
I don’t know what to do. To just leave will be to admit defeat, but I can’t let this guy take advantage of someone so desperate.
– Do you accept debit cards?
The man relaxes somewhat and smirks at me.
– Sure.
As he turns to reach for his card machine, I scoop up the pieces on the counter and sprint for the door. My mind is screaming that I’m going to be caught and arrested, but before I can change my mind I’m at the door, which mercifully did not click shut when the old lady left. I can barely hear the shopkeeper’s cursing over the blood pumping through my ears, and I don’t turn around to see if he’s following me.
The street is busy. Holiday shoppers throng Long Street. I realise that I must look like the stereotypical shoplifter, arms filled with booty, feet slapping the pavement, scattering people. I even knock into someone and they drop their bags. Gifts roll onto the floor. I would laugh at the gimmickiness of the getaway cliché but I’m too scared to think about anything other than getting out of sight of the antique shop.
I turn left down a little side street which is fairly empty and lean against a wall, my lungs complaining bitterly with every breath. I should really get more exercise. As I catch my breath I start to think about the implications of what I’ve done and wonder why I did it. The only way any good can come of this is if I can find the old lady and give her her treasures. It takes a moment before I realise it’s going to be almost impossible to find her in this crowd, and that’s if she’s still around. She might be on her way to Simonstown now for all I know. Or Graaf-Reniet. What the hell am I doing?

*There's more to come!*
© William Edgcumbe

The Antique Shop - Part I

There is something a little morbid about antique shops that I’m sure most people think but rarely mention. Entering one is like probing the mind of a dead man to examine the treasures of his waking days, or prising open a tomb and picking and choosing which artefacts from another’s life, home, world, dreams to make your own. There are whole histories in each item, chipped or flawless, valuable or cheap, in demand or yellowing further in its same place on the counter.
Each piece has a story to tell, how it got there, by whom, when, how many hands it passed through. Some may have changed owners a thousand times, wanderers which visited homes, loyal to no one, eager for the next mantle, the next attic, the next cardboard box. Others would have been prised reluctantly from their pride of place on an old dresser, unused to new eyes looking at them, new hands handling them, suddenly in this strange place where their true value has been replaced by a number, ther real reasons for existence – perhaps a gift from a long-dead boy to a girl, a treasure from childhood, an heirloom passed down from a leathery forefather – to never be understood by another. They are observers of our shifting world, created in times much different, much the same, sitting patiently through wars, vendettas, upheavals; withholding judgement on family quarrels, on things done in secret in rooms where no one seems to be watching; listening to intimate whisperings shared between two people for whom no one else exists; tenderly watching baby fat melt away, lean muscles develop, the first signs of hair in previously bald places, babies becoming children becoming teenagers becoming adults becoming old becoming remembrances.
They are the quiet watchmen of countless lives lived and lost, the witnesses of our true natures in their mute and unassuming way. I want to pick up each piece, hold it to my ear to hear its whispered story and take it to where it really belongs, to where it means something beyond aesthetics, to put it before that one pair of eyes which will light up when they see it.
I can’t help but look at the shopkeeper with distaste. Here are countless Rapunzel’s aging prettily, their silvering hair let down but no true knight to rescue them, no one worthy to pay the ransom their captor asks. This one is particularly vulgar. Surrounded by pretty, dainty things, he slobs at his counter in a stained vest looking at a selection of treasures in a box. His eyes flick to mine and I can see that there is no spark to them, little reason and a coldness that makes my fists clench involuntarily. He returns their glare to the box, in which I can make out some ceramic figurines, a wizened old book and a glittering pendant which boldly declares, “LOVE!” in the voice of bright days and summer dresses. These scattered pieces united in the box are redolent with the stories of their creators, owners, lovers, readers, givers, receivers. I can smell the heady days of their youth, taste the adventures they have known, see a brightness in them which makes each piece priceless. But the man paws at them gruffly, holding each piece up to his dead eyes and grunting the grunt of a long-time cigarette smoker before writing down a number in a catalogue.
I allow myself fantasies of winning the Lotto and sweeping in here to rescue each item from their sorry fate, or coming back after closing time and emptying the place out and giving them homes where they will be treasured.
It is while I am examining the jewellery in a dirty case and trying to hear what story each possesses that the door bell rings and the gate clicks open. I nod and smile at the woman who enters. She appears not see me.
– H-hello. I was wondering if you buy antiques?
I know strained politeness when I hear it. It is usually in bed with desperation and gives itself away in its small pauses, in a summery breeze of syllables that in spite of their intent fall brackish on the air. The repugnant man looks up from his box and grunts in the affirmative. There is a particularly unpleasant glint to his eyes that is new. He can sense something too. He has caught a whiff of her desperation and leans back in his chair, savouring it like a fine wine, identifying all its little nuances. He can identify that smell anywhere. It is pungent with unpaid bills and sleepless nights, pregnant with a desperate counting out of coins, the adding up of exactly what groceries will cost and putting back what cannot be bought. He enjoys the sharp tang of someone who will do anything for a pittance to carry them through another day, put something in their belly which gnaws on its own juices.
– I was cleaning out my house this morning and came across these things I thought you might be interested in. I don’t know if they’re worth much but I thought they might fetch me something. They’re not doing much good in the back of a cupboard.
She chuckles airily. She speaks too quickly and her smile is that quarter inch too wide to be genuine, something which the shopkeeper doesn’t fail to register as he watches her unpack her bag and place objects on his counter. There is something very wrong here.

*I'll post the rest of this story as soon as I finish it.*
© William Edgcumbe

The wedding rehearsal

*I wrote this the night before Patrick and Robyn's wedding almost two years. I love weddings.*

The joy is bottled up like a shaken Coke, ready to burst and explode sweetness everywhere. In casual clothing we smile and giggle and elbow each other at the shadow tomorrow casts on today, a faint imprint of the joy of two young people so madly in love with each other they can only whisper it in case its spell is broken. We are told our whole lives that fairy tales don’t exist anywhere other than in well-thumbed picture books or on celluloid screens, and yet here it is, right in front of us. Though we are not in a wooded glade or the topmost tower of a castle surrounded by magma and kept by dragons, here is true love’s kiss, true love’s smile, a snapshot of a future in which two lives never part. The wedding rehearsal couldn’t have been long, but time wore boots of lead and dragged us through the treacle thick air so as to leave us suspended in this moment of such bliss; for what other word is there to describe times like these? And yet it falls short, as all words do, as the two fumble through their vows which tomorrow will shake and crack in their throats as two bodies come to terms with the earth-shattering moment of becoming one. Every pair of eyes in the room quietly practices what they will surely do tomorrow, though for now we hold it in as best we can. We keep our tears in our eyes and our laughter in our throats. We giggle and jostle and look forward to tomorrow, to gazing on as the miracle of love happens right in front of us; (oh watchers, you are blessed!) We remind ourselves of the privilege of being in proximity to such great love. And as the rehearsal draws to an end, if you look carefully enough you can see tomorrow’s photo slowly develop just as timid stars press through an evening sky. You blink, and there they are in a future a mere breath away. A crying groom, a smiling bride.

Bathing in briny air

The beach lies before us like a present screaming, "Unwrap me, I'm yours!" From above it looks like a discarded piece of watermelon, the cerise flesh devoured and the white and green husk all that is left, the half-moon beach and the trees. The breeze ruffles our hair like a kind uncle and we run holding hands to the water's edge. You whisper something to me, but a jealous gust steals your words away and hides them in a secret place where it can listen to them over and over and over again and wish for hands to hold and be held. No matter though, I always know what you've said, because I understand the shape and movement of your lips so well. I mouth, "I love you too." We are the only people on the beach, shipwrecked on a paradise, free of our vessels of work and worry, our lifeboats of cell phones and wallets and car keys broken to pieces on the reef, lost to all except inquisitive dolphins. You are laughing, and my heart sings.

Where first kisses flourish

On soggy nights with humidity heavy in the air as a greenhouse, kissing-catcher-caught boys and girls make their way to the drive-in theatre. They come hair gelled, lips rouged, underarms sprayed, new shoes polished. They come pretty as lilies and plain as leaves. Young moustaches are combed and worn with pride. Like fine moths, freshly pupated from childhood this very summer, they flock and jostle to the light of the big screen. Dad-pleaded cars pull up smartly, the tops down and fire in their exhausts. Younger or poorer boys look on in misery at the drivers, banished to second pickings by vehicular default. They come there all except embarrassing little brothers and sisters, ignored and denied, who have better things to do anyway, playing stalk-the-lantern or telling ghost stories. Saturday evenings all dressed in finery after a full day planning outfits, poses and pick-up lines.
Oh, the first kisses! Oh, the nervous lips meeting unsteadily! Oh, the bodies acting under impulses driven by questing minds! Hands soft and fragile as silk scarves wrapped in calluses from cricket balls. Breath sweet as honey and warm as summer pavements mingling with that of lake water and spearmint. Tongue-moistened lips fit perfectly, bodies shaking with fear and excitement. And as the lucky ones pair off, others are left watching. They came this night, as on all the others, hoping against hope and logic, for a piece of that magic, to smell apple-scented hair as it falls about her face. The watchers, these people, desolation dressed behind pimples and buck-teeth, puppy fat and the kindly lying compliments of aunts. The watchers, affecting casual disinterest, but given away by eyes flicking to embracing couples and sighs felt more than heard. The watchers, standing in the snack shop grotto, alone or in a group, all different but the same, all wallflowers and dulled penknives. Their hearts are filled with lies, and how! Self-imposed lies told softly in their beds as they drift into that nebulous place between slumber and waking, that perfect place where they are muscled or slim, their faces those of demigods or mermaids, that place of wonder where hope is caught easily in butterfly nets and flutters with the faces of pans and nymphs. It’s the land that lasts forever and is snatched away in an instant by alarm clocks and the cries of parents to dress for school. These nocturnal lies love to mingle with the stories, the romances, the dashing heroes and maidens in despair, or the comely everyman who woos the beautiful girl with nothing more than a pure heart and a kind word. How these scenes play on the backs of eyelids in those moments when they are shut to avoid the truth of what their lips are missing. Despair for the brand new shirts designed and failing as a visual pheromone! Weep for the tissue-padded brassieres! Mourn for knock-knees and pigeon feet! The agony of the fat girl! The hopelessness of greasy hair! Pray that clumsy tongues find eloquence! Oh the drama of long evenings, of first kisses blooming as lonely lips tremble unfulfilled after nights of pillow-practicing. Oh how the same dappled light reveals pain and pleasure.
Oh sorrowful skulkers, your time will come! Watch not those boasting bodies pressed together in earnest! Theirs is not love, but fumbling senses prone to greed! What you crave is not what you need. Patience friends, give it time; you’ll ripen and bulge, colour will flush to your cheeks. Come, harvest time, come! Let not our friends know sadness! Come fruit picker, we beckon you on! Shine bright sun, shine on those hiding in the dark! Reveal their beauty; give us all kind eyes. Let dry lips meet and never part.