If there is beauty, there is denial.

If there is change, then there is fear.

If there is love in different shapes and forms, there is unfair dismissal.

I’ve seen yearning in slanted eyes as much as I’ve heard it in countless lies; ridicules; phantom comparisons. Walls have been built to keep Enemy out, yet in such doing, also to keep allies help build a stronger fort. I have seen blinkers fastened to faces with lips drawn downwards, eyes wide and pupils dilated, keeping pace with a one-track life.

I’ve heard numerous comments about badly written literature where the Bigger Picture is lost on grammatical errors – thus annulling a good, innocent, disarming story into something far worse.

There is more than just black or white. There is a whole spectrum of colour, including GREY. Grey is a lovely colour, and a colour I’d love to dwell on – if that’s okay with the neighbours, of course. God forbid I step out of line and cause an apocalypse to rain down on their perfect little monochromatic life. However, even colours are limited. There is no comparison to convey the enormity of how open a mind can be. Infinitum?

In spite of myself, I feel angry. I feel hurt. I FEEL, and I feel a lot. I feel and see unhappiness everywhere, and it’s like corrosive acid thrown in my face every time. I am saddened that everyone tend to be masochistic liars. Clearly, with my beliefs to what life should be like in sheer contrast to the norm, I have no say. Majority speaks. I will have to accept this defeat if I choose not to listen.

As a selfish creature as much the same as the rest of humankind, I can live with the decision of being happy – and utterly alone. Like a ghost. Happiness is my greatest goal, even if I have to shun my kind in order to be so.

Even though I’m a ghost, I allow beauty, the idea of Love, camaraderie, smiles and kind words to fill me up. I allow it to fill me with buoyancy even though the world is a murderous cesspool lined with flawless silver.


till death do us consolidate


“Drop that!”

A shot reverberated across the tensed chamber, the walls and granite floor rippling in contradictory effects. Plaster filtered down through the air like strewn confetti that caught and glinted off the sun that shone through the enormous stained glass windows, shot off the ground and littered across the reposed bodies of those fearing for their precious lives; hands covered faces as various films of expressions rolled across it.

The consequent silence reproved the chamber for any further noise than those of the gunman and his wife now glaring at each other from across a distance. The omnipresent silence silently degusted upon the hush that spread like hot oil, affecting all that breathed within the steel enforced concrete confines.

The bulge-eyed guard that took it upon himself to save the innocent people from the lunatic wielding an impressive Smith & Wesson 500 Magnum dropped his own gun and fell to the floor with a pathetic yelp.

“Thomas? Thomas, drop your weapon and come out slowly with your arms raised. No one needs to die today; do you hear me? God damn it, Thomas, do you understand what I am telling you?”

Thomas drew a deep breath, exhaled, and drew upon the archaic puissance this one moment brought, filling his arteries and head with cantankerous strength. He directed the gun at his wife and implored her with his tear-brimmed eyes. His soulful gaze slid down to the Taurus 605B2 Revolver she had aimed at his face, her confident stance that of Aphrodite, her eyebrows aloft while deep blue eyes dared him to shoot her.  

“I won’t let you leave me,” he said, his voice aquiver with conflicting emotions.

She said nothing, and captivated his eyes with her own amused glare.

She was so damn beautiful. Her olive skin was flawless, her hair dark and lustrous in effective contrast, her face innocent yet ruthless, her body voluptuous in all the right places – and her legs. Oh, sweet mother of man, her legs.

“Can I say some-” bang!

A plangent silence befell the group of people when the man who tried to speak got his head blown away. Crimson patterns stained the far wall and dripped off the smoothed surface, but no one screamed. No one dared move or even utter a prayer to their respective gods.

Thomas’s wife looked down at the headless body sprawled in the last position it will ever occupy, a smile flickering along the sleek lines of her full, red lips. Her hungry eyes shot up towards her husband, reeling him towards her.

“How can I ever leave you when I love you so? How can I leave when the madman I fell in love with has returned to me?” she asked him, her voice broken, and he ran into her embrace. He buried his tear-stained face in her bosom and engulfed her frail body with his masculine arms, pulling her into him. They kissed each other hard and long, oblivious of the onlookers that looked up to them in obvious derision. The two nuptial lovers could not keep their hands off one another as their fiery love consumed all intelligence and condensed it into that of animalistic need.

“Thomas, I know you can hear me. Surrender now or bear the consequences,” the noisy, forever alone cop screamed in aid of his megaphone.

The mechanically altered voice jolted the lovers back to reality, their eyes still glazed with sexual hunger as they reluctantly parted lips. They grinned at each other. The wife threw her head back and laughed aloud.

She pointed towards the reinforced glass doors of the bank that exited onto the street where a dozen police cars already stood in wait, guns at the ready, rotating roof lights glaring at the midday sun, and witnesses clustered in feigned horror-stricken groups, finally having something to watch than looking upon their own colourless lives.

“That bag on the floor next to the doors. I brought your M-16, love. I thought you might need it when my sister woke me up this morning. Man I hate that bitch. Never let me go again, do you understand me?”

Thomas smiled and kissed his wife hard. He let her go and strode towards the doors.

“Let’s kill some cops, shall we,” he said menacingly.   


This short story was inspired by Fictions in Flashes flash fiction, which I liked very much – thank you very much!


I was on my motorbike, going at illegal speeds.

I was not wearing a helmet, and the wind whipped at my hair, pressing curious fingers against my cheeks and neck, all the while screaming in my ears. I did not understand their language, though it might have been forebodingly.

Cars whipped by in a senseless blur, their shapes undefined and their sounds inaudible. Sometimes I imagined shouts, but then reality did not allow me to dwell on that observation.

I was moving forward, and they were staying behind. I was flying, and they no longer existed.

In fact, I knew where I was going.


() () ()


The voices told me truths too hard to contemplate. They were in my ears and told me stories that I found too incredible to believe. However, their incessant recollections started to burn into my mind, scorched its way into my very being, which only left me with one choice: believe. I no longer knew what truth was. I no longer knew who my friends were – even family became strangers. The voices told me that it did not matter. They told me that I was the one with my mask ripped off, that I was beginning to understand the world for what it was. They told me that now I could see through walls, and that nothing was going to hinder me anymore.

I believed them. They told me what I must do.


() () ()


I turned onto an inclining junction that veered to the right. Road signs blurred. Honks became but an easily ignored hindrance nagging at the back of my mind, which frankly could not absorb and analyze any new information. The motorbike underneath me powerful and hungry, eating at the road with shrill delight: it buckled as its tyres held traction and began to climb the unfinished road.

At the end of a long curve, the road ended with a 170-foot drop to the ground.

My heart escalated as I increased speed.

The voices were back, and shrieked against the wails of the wind urging me to slow down.

I ignored it and found solace in the voices instead. Their guidance urged me to approach the end of the road with open eyes, and embrace what is to come next.

Just as I reached the end, a memory burst into bloom, and had me smile. 

I went off the road.

I laughed aloud when I started to soar. The wings of thought took flight, and I soared across the heavens. The bike, unfortunately, exploded upon impact with the ground below. The heat pushed me up, the wind pushed me to the side, and I floated over the highway, much to the surprise of the motorists staring at me with their mouths agape. I was happy, and I shouted at them to hear the voices, let them in and believe whatever they have to say.

The wind of change is upon us.


Share Your World

Do you believe in ghosts? I absolutely do not. However, it is always fun to watch all these ‘ghost hunt’ shows on television. It’s intriguing as well as entertaining!  

Irregardless of your physical fitness, coordination or agility:  If you could play any sport professionally what would it be?  Or if you can’t picture yourself playing sports, what is your favorite sport? I’m not entirely fit fit fit, but I’m fit enough. I love cycling. I cycle to work more often than not. I don’t know if cycling is actually a professional sport, but if it is, I’d do that! Otherwise, cricket!! 

Do you prefer long hair or short hair for yourself? I like short hair, for I have crazy frizzy and curly hair when I try to grow it. Besides, I don’t have the patience to wait . . . So short!

If you were on an small island, who would you want to be with? And where is it?  How big is it? I suppose my answer will change when I have found the ‘one’, and the chances of that happening is almost zero to none. So, I’d like to share a small Island, anywhere sunny and warm, with my best friend, whom I deeply care for.

Bonus question:  What are you grateful for from last week, and what are you looking forward to in the week coming up? I am deeply grateful for all the friends that I have. I haven’t realized what friendship is until recently. I am looking forward to establish contact with a Wordsmith on Monday who might give me an opportunity in the writing world. Whatever it is, depends on her. Since I’m planning on becoming a journalist, anything to do with words is a plus!! 

Fray – Recovery

Don’t stand on the sidelines: join in and show us a photo that says “fray” to you.Baby Finish

It is with great difficulty that I share this picture, let alone look at it. This was the love of my life, Lucky Luke . . . I chose this picture because cat flu left this little darling frayed. He survived the illness, of course 🙂 So, this is my contribution to the weekly challenge. 


A Slice Of Afrikaans – My Oseaan


Te diep was ek in die verlede gekrul

in ‘n donker gat van heimwee gehul

vol negatiewe dinge gevul

waar was my oseaan?


Te vas in die greep van hartseer

was ek van realiteit geskeur

met winderige winter gevoelens

moes ek deur digte doringtakke beur. 


Tog het ek aan ‘n greintjie hoop

die winde met ‘n traan getem

die winter met ‘n glimlag gekoop

en die wiele van hulle daad gerem.


Ek het uiteindelik my oseaan gesien

skoonheid blink in blou smarag

met silwer wit wolke oorhoofs

het ek my hart gevind. 





Just Some Photos and Perhaps a Little Poetry




Rain and Hail this past Saturday


The Break


Amazing . . .

I am amazingly lucky to have these gorgeous cloud formations and sunlight when the sun goes down where I work . . . Some of it just takes the breath right out of me and leaves me speechless!

There is a quiver,

a slight quiver,

when the edge of the cloud

gives way for a burst of light.

When the colour of blue,

turns to deep gold,

and orange,

and pinkish hue.

The time of day when

the expectancy is high,

the awe is great,

than it was then.


She Is On The Other Side Of The Door


Something woke me.

The moon was out and bright, pressing its lunar glow against the curtains along with the gentle push of the wind filtering through the window. Beyond that, the skeletal shadows of tree limbs scratched against the cloth with soundless intent.

I heard a rhythmic dripping sound as the remnants of the storm that raged during the night splashed against the concrete that ran parallel to the house.

I looked at the clock that stood on my nightstand, the glowing dials running about the clock face as if in a hurry, throwing disproportionate eidolons scattering across my room.

My heart started with a stutter.

I sat up and watched the shadows on the curtains curl and scratch, curl and scratch.

A loud boom reverberated through the entire room as the door that lead into the hallway almost gave way to a sudden blow practised upon it, and I whipped around to face it. A wailing scream caught off the walls and concentrated on me, making me clasp my hands over my ears.

I got off the bed, screaming; the instinctual part of me trying to outdo the noise. The wail stopped. I took my hands off my ears, listening to hear any sound underneath the silence, waiting for the obvious pregnancy to explode a second time.

The silence stretched, evolved and became something akin to a living being, listening as intently as I did, watching me from all around.

Having had enough of this nonsense, I rushed to the door; not even contemplating what it was that had struck the enormous blow. However, just as I was about to turn the knob, a scratchy voice called my name.

A chill ran through my entire body and made me stop.

John. The shortened version of Jonathan – a nickname I have not heard for twenty years.

A twenty-year-old memory unravelled itself in my mind and the chill became an icy grip of sheer horror.  

She made me freeze in front of the door as I became aware of a presence silently waiting on the other side.

No, it was more than just being aware. I could see her clearly – a haggard old woman with skin as white and translucent as soapy water, her hair falling from her head in clotted strands, her dress black and rotten. She was softly pressing her hand against the door as she placed an old, weathered face with black holes for eyes right next to it, listening intently, her lips pulled into a smile that said she found what she was looking for. The hand that touched the door gently stroked it, as if lovingly, as if this door would give way to the best prize she has ever received in her rotten life.

She listened to my breathing.

She listened to my heartbeat now as fast as that of an overexerted horse.

Mother had been right that night, all those many years ago. Mother had been right all along. She told me if a kid does not behave, the Lamia will come and get him, and gobble him up.

I could see the Lamia’s mouth stretch into an enormous circle, her gums grey and putrid, and her tongue as red as the congealed blood that pushed through my veins. I could see the door bulge inward under the gentle pressure of her skeletal hand, rotting as it gives.

She did not die that night. How can she? She is forever.

She always collects.