RETRIBUTION. – Copyright ARTSMAD PUBLICATIONS 2009
Bentley Carneson was in serious debt, the 25-year-old son of a very wealthy 17th century ship merchant, he had squandered his family’s wealth to near nothing. His family’s predicament did not really bother him, not nearly as much as the London underground who were now demanding in full their paid promises. He was starting to doubt the word of his accounts manager Ernest Smythe and his business partner Charles Radcliffe. The year was 1815 and through various missed deals, lost opportunities and shocking advice, Carneson found himself in Ceylon India, trying to salvage the last of his father’s lucrative empire. His reputation, which was starting to precede him, stated simply that BC’s hands were never dirty but his heart was as black as coal. There was a certain Machiavellian imagery to this that appealed to the dark recesses of his inner being. As his financial security fell around him and his business relations dwindled, a vengeful spiteful streak started to overwhelm him becoming an all-consuming hatred. He put the blame for his financial demise at the door of his 2 closest business associates. He would stop at nothing now to see they ended up in the same foul waters he was finding himself submerged in. even if it meant getting his hands filthy dirty.
When Carneson booked his passage back to London on the East India ship the Arniston, he knew he was facing complete financial ruin back in London. His very life would be in danger if he couldn’t manage to make good his debt. This worried him but the plotting and the scheming to undo his 2 accomplices kept him from jumping into the cool clear Indian Ocean. He already felt the cold foul waters of despair overwhelming his thoughts. So the natural extension of this was to quietly let the Indian Ocean deal with his carcass. This was a far cry better than the polluted Thames river, which had quietly received many such as himself, willing and unwilling over the years. To his mind the ocean would be a pure washing of the blackness which was overwhelming his vision, it seemed a fitting end. The first part of the journey was uneventful, however as the convoy of ships progressed, he became aware of the long tentacles of his debtors. As is always the case the bully boys form part of the first wave of intimidation and it became apparent a ship in the middle of the Indian Ocean, was still well within reach of his other life. He was aware of being followed by someone for the last year. in a dark passage near the galley steps, his doubts were put to rest. He could talk away the bruising to the face as the ship was rolling and many a wrong foot on the stairs led to nasty injuries. So it was that Carneson found himself in the first class lounge more often than not, raking up a debt which in itself would take years to pay back.
It was a viscous storm and a tragic event, which changed the course of his life. The Arniston broke away from the main convoy during the storm and was driven to its resting place on an impossible stretch of the South African coast . Out of the 279 passengers 6 men where reported to have survived. It was fortunate for Carneson that he washed ashore much further down the white sandy beach. He was not alone; one of the London underground toughs had stuck to his job impeccably and had also washed up alive, nearby. Obviously Carneson was worth a lot more alive than dead. To an observant rescuer something might have seemed amiss when a man’s body was found above the high water mark. The man had Carneson papers in a tweed jacket 2 sizes too small for him. There was also the imprint of finger marks on his neck and the sign of a huge struggle etched in the white sand. The single set of footprints with the intermittent drops of blood leading into the dunes where quickly being erased by the wind. This was lost to the mortified rescuers who had the grim task of burying the wreck’s unfortunate passengers. The papers back in London pronounced the death of B Carneson who’s body is buried on a remote stretch of beach in South Africa.
The next year or 2 of Carneson’s life was unimaginably difficult. Every step was made with the all-consuming vitriolic hatred for the men who had put him in this insufferable situation. His will for revenge was always stronger than his will to live. He learnt how to survive in the wilderness between the wreck and Cape Town. Being detected was not an option and anonymity was vital for this next phase of his life to work. The altercation in the white sands had left him with a broken nose and a ghastly slash across his face. The wound and the disfigurement untreated left him with terrible facial scars. Hardly recognizable as the once dashing Bentley Carneson he hoped to shadow back into society just long enough to inflict his venom, what happened next did not really matter. Getting back to London was never going to be easy. It was a cold June 1817 morning that saw a disheveled spectacle make its way across the Cape flats to Cape Town. By this time Carneson was heavily bearded, a fraction of the imposing 6.2 man that had slipped from society 2 years previously.
No questions asked, none given – Carneson started begging and eventually found casual work at the harbor as a carpenter’s assistant. He found, his grossly disfigured face prevented people from asking questions, being to embarrassed too look at him, let alone engage him in conversation. This suited him just fine, Carneson slowly built up his financial resources, he also to his own amazement became an excellent ships carpenter. And his skills became needed on most of the new ships calling into port. It still was his absolute hatred that kept him from slipping into the cold waters of the Atlantic harbor sea port. It was the year 1825 and carneson now Jack Smith had amassed a tidy sum and a solid reputation. In the Vasco Da Gama pub which he frequented he had actually made a few valuable friends. He found he enjoyed the hard work, which often took his mind from his one and only mission. It was a July morning when he lit upon the face of Sophia. She was a beautiful woman; her eyes sparkled with her smile. Surprising even himself with the vitriolic hatred that cursed through his veins was what now seemed to be the capacity within all this to discover an equal but opposite capacity to love? He found himself staring and thinking of her obsessively. She worked as a maid for a wealthy British family near the docks, when Jack did eventually engage with her, she appeared to look past his appearance and became a genuine confidant. A spoilt, self-obsessed man such as Carneson lacked the capacity to see beyond himself. But lowly Jack Smith, disfigured and disheveled was capable of turning a black heart red. The days were spent working and thinking of his new obsession. His previous reason for living was shoved to the back of his mind. He was actually becoming happy and contented, he was definitely going to ask for the hand of Sophia and he knew she would say yes. If it weren't for the arrival of the 20 gun British man o war ship, HMS Martin, Jack Smith would have probably moved on from his vendetta in London and lived an accomplished simple life as a ship’s carpenter with his beautiful young bride.
The HMS Martin was a British man of war ship, which arrived in the Cape on her way to Australia, in 1826. She needed a few carpentry repairs. Jack Smith was the expert carpenter chosen to oversee the reparations. Normally a man o war does not take on passengers but whilst working near the captains cabin Jack heard recognizable voices. The HMS Martin was secretly carrying 3 passengers to Australia. Now usually this would not concern him or even bother him. However in this case 2 of the passenger’s voices were well known to Carneson. Whilst working undetected in the cabin next door, Carneson over- heard their mission. Smythe and Radcliffe were on a top secret mission for Her Majesty to infiltrate the Australian underground. It appeared both were Queen’s men and infiltrating established crime syndicates was their job.
Carneson’s rage went to a white-hot level. All the hatred and vitriol solidified in his cursed veins. He needed a plan; he needed retribution, he wanted revenge. He carried on the repairs as best he could; he had no worry of bumping into Smythe and Radcliffe, if that was really their names. They were well hidden and it was fortuitous he had stumbled upon their meeting with the captain. His nights were spent conceiving his plan. It all came to him simply enough, he would sabotage the ship. It seemed the entire British fraternity conspired against him. It was fitting that the establishment would pay in full for their deed. Being an expert carpenter he felt he could undetected weaken areas of the ship’s woodwork. In so doing the first big storm would send her to a watery grave almost immediately. This was a suitable end , which almost mirrored his own previous demise perfectly.
The last part of his plan would need to be done just before the ship sailed , he wanted to weaken the rigging on the main mast. He planned to sneak on board late at night and do the necessary and then slip into the shadowy night undetected. He would then comfortably resume his Jack Smith persona, marry and live happy and contented for the rest of his life.
Carneson gathered his bag of tools and headed for his date with destiny. He had a jaunt in his step and the air was crisp and clear. He loved Cape Town at this time of year, he loved being here and he loved Sophia. His life was good and once he had accomplished this sinister deed he would symbolically remove the foul, wretched stench of Carneson from his memory forever. Approaching the docks he thought he heard a noise behind him. Turning around he saw a harbor rat the size of a small cat slip into the black water. Creeping on board was easy, as the men had exhausted themselves in preparation for the huge ocean crossing. Carneson set about sabotaging the key areas of the rigging. It was early morning as he slipped over the side, dropping into the harbor waters. The cold Atlantic Ocean seemed to cleanse and cool his hatred and as he stepped on shore he was now completely the phoenix - Jack Smith.
Jack watched the HMS Martin set sail that early 1826 morning. A wry smile pursed his lips. He watched her from Signal Hill and once she had disappeared from sight he left to go find his true love. He had a tidy sum of money stashed away; they would live in a cottage he had been eyeing near the harbor, kids would be great and maybe a dog. Life was really good that morning; Jack Smith was a truly contented man. The bones, the rancid flesh of Lord Carneson had now been laid to rest forever in his mind.
If you walk up near the top of Signal Hill, there is a lone tree set apart from the rest. It is a gnarled twisted tree, grown in an impossible spot, exposed to the harsh Cape storms and searing African sun. The seedling had been put into fine soil but as nature would have it, it had been washed into this impossible spot, growing into this hideous apparition you will now see before you. If you look very carefully at the branch facing the setting sun, you used to be able to see a rope burn, but that I think has grown over now.
In late 1826, the accountant Willaby Smythe and businessman Charles Radcliffe still in London, read a very confusing note sent from the Cape. The note simply read, "your voices now over whelm my every waking moment". Signed Carneson. Smythe simply threw the garbled note in the bin – vaguely recalling a distant business acquaintance called Bentley Carneson, who recklessly squandered his family assets.
You see, Jack Smith made his way to Sophia’s house in the Bo Kaap full of expectation, her mother was surprised, shocked to see him. She informed him that she had said goodbye to Sophia early that morning. She said Sophia had followed him to the docks the previous night, she had seen his travel bag and she couldn’t bear the thought of him leaving without her. She had rushed back and packed a few things and said she would stow herself away on the HMS Martin. She was prepared to travel to the ends of the earth, where-ever in fact, Jack Smith might eventually go. Her mom had begged her to stay , but she said she saw not the apparition but the incredible man whom she loved.
The end
Shipwrecks along the South African coast. – parts of this story are true - however the characters are definitely not. ive tried to keep whats true separate from whats just a story.
It is not only the Waratah that went to a mysterious watery grave along the SA coast. Numerous other ships have completely vanished along this treacherous stretch of coast. The HMS Martin was one of the first large ships to disappear without a trace after leaving Cape Town harbor in 1826 on her way to Australia. The wreck of the Arniston claimed 273 lives in 1815 with only 6 known survivors. 25 of the victims were regrettably children.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
MATTERS OF THE MIND - copyright
I am Doctor Dirk Potgieter and my secret obsession all started innocently enough. As the leading expert in matters of the mind in South Africa, it was really just a natural progression, to start testing my mind theories on those closest to me. I assume total control of any and all my social interactive situations. This makes it easy for me to manipulate myself into the puppeteer position, to test and research my latest social interactive theory. Or S.I.T. as I call it. I pull, knot and carefully stitch the fragile strings of human interactive psychology. Like a skilled heart surgeon stitching up tiny arteries, I ply my skill. I secretly liken my art form to the careful manufacture of an intricate bomb, a social house of cards. The true art is in knowing when to introduce my innocent victim to the tiny trigger or spark. The ensuing social explosion between oblivious partakers leave them completely emotionally drained and exhausted, Unaware of the gentle baiting, teasing and stitching that eventually leaves them feeling emotionally lobotomised. At this point I quickly provide the needed emotional antidote without a moments hesitation, to make sure I remedy any and all frail minds affected by my important research. In so doing I inevitably look even more professional and learned to all present who have just witnessed my absolute genius at work. I have all the answers to the contrived situations and revel in the awe of those who listen to my awesome theories of the mind – I literally leave a room of participants completely spellbound. Sometimes I administer this antidote just in the nick of time, just before the person is lost to the wilderness of the mind from which there is no coming back.
This scenario is extremely rare to achieve – but when done properly it will leave a room of people completely speechless. Spellbound by my impressive mind analysis theories and absolute caring humanist persona. The by now suicidal participant is also absolutely elated to learn the fundamental issues that plague them. They actually feel in debited to me for my accurate revelations and unique understanding of their space and place in the Psychological Social Interactive Universe. P.S.I.U.
Very tragically my research has had collateral damage, in the early days. On one occasion I made my one and only fatal error of taking too long to supply the participant with the social antidote. Unfortunately one of my more sensitive partakers, oblivious to my important mind research tragically killed herself, by plunging to her death, head first from the third floor toilet window, whilst our dinner was being served.
As I opened my first practice soon after this tragic event, for awhile I eased off on my art form. However, the research is just to important to stop completely. My research is of vital importance to humanity. The power I am now aware of, that I can wield with my mind is all encompassing. In most cases when supplying the antidote I do not even charge for my expert advice and suggestions. The person actually receives my brilliant direction for free, which they can really gain from and use.
I don’t really have a name for this real out, real in psychology, which leaves oblivious participants teetering on the brink of insanity. It is much like hypnosis, with some people being more susceptible than others to my mind manipulation. Over the years due to my constant practice and obsession with this mind study, people slowly have withdrawn from me. For no obvious reason on their part, other than whenever I am vaguely present. Wives want to divorce husbands; depressants or the newly depressed, start thinking about wrists, bridges and copious amounts of alcohol and pills. I am constantly seeking out new social circles to conduct my mind research and social experiments in. This does not really bother me much because this ensures people do not get to close to me to observe a pattern developing. And I consider it a form of marketing for my now bustling practice. I often sleep at my office and shower and ready myself for my morning patients. I am meticulously careful never to try this secret obsession with any of my current patients, as that would be completely unprofessional. No, I reserve the research strictly for after work social interactions.
My latest secretary is a beautiful woman. I gave the institute where I run my practice my detailed list of requirements and because of my accurate description of what I was looking for, did not have to go through a long list of candidates. This suited me just fine as my schedule is very busy and wasting time is never an option. My previous secretary resigned rather suddenly. As I never fully mix work with pleasure, I only slightly tested my mind theories on her. She unfortunately left before I could apply the antidote to her manufactured emotional issues. It was really her own fault, as she should have stayed longer. Now there is a poor woman who believes that her husband has whittled her away to a R100 for groceries and R10 for herself weekly servant. She also believes that she misplaces things and loses money all the time due to my implied subliminal memory loss implication techniques. I was also just starting to research a new mind technique of following her around and staring at her from a distance. She would never see me of course but I realise now the theory of someone staring at you constantly, even though you could not see them is very affective. But this is very advanced psychological study and is very new to me. I will perfect this research over time and document my findings for you all to benefit from.
Due to the high number of sexually deviant patients that come to my practice. The psychological institution that I run my practise in has had to suddenly become incredibly strict. I now have to see all my patients at my office under strict lock and key. Additionally due to the high number of germs carried by these miscreant patients they have to come and see me with white coats on. Even my new secretary has to wear a coat. In order to get through my workload of patients, I am finding I have to sleep at my office every single night now.
I will be publishing my important thesis shortly for humanities benefit. All participants in my research will be amazed at the intricate roll they played in this very important and revolutionary document. It will finally validate my position as South Africa’s leading psychological figure and mind expert.
This scenario is extremely rare to achieve – but when done properly it will leave a room of people completely speechless. Spellbound by my impressive mind analysis theories and absolute caring humanist persona. The by now suicidal participant is also absolutely elated to learn the fundamental issues that plague them. They actually feel in debited to me for my accurate revelations and unique understanding of their space and place in the Psychological Social Interactive Universe. P.S.I.U.
Very tragically my research has had collateral damage, in the early days. On one occasion I made my one and only fatal error of taking too long to supply the participant with the social antidote. Unfortunately one of my more sensitive partakers, oblivious to my important mind research tragically killed herself, by plunging to her death, head first from the third floor toilet window, whilst our dinner was being served.
As I opened my first practice soon after this tragic event, for awhile I eased off on my art form. However, the research is just to important to stop completely. My research is of vital importance to humanity. The power I am now aware of, that I can wield with my mind is all encompassing. In most cases when supplying the antidote I do not even charge for my expert advice and suggestions. The person actually receives my brilliant direction for free, which they can really gain from and use.
I don’t really have a name for this real out, real in psychology, which leaves oblivious participants teetering on the brink of insanity. It is much like hypnosis, with some people being more susceptible than others to my mind manipulation. Over the years due to my constant practice and obsession with this mind study, people slowly have withdrawn from me. For no obvious reason on their part, other than whenever I am vaguely present. Wives want to divorce husbands; depressants or the newly depressed, start thinking about wrists, bridges and copious amounts of alcohol and pills. I am constantly seeking out new social circles to conduct my mind research and social experiments in. This does not really bother me much because this ensures people do not get to close to me to observe a pattern developing. And I consider it a form of marketing for my now bustling practice. I often sleep at my office and shower and ready myself for my morning patients. I am meticulously careful never to try this secret obsession with any of my current patients, as that would be completely unprofessional. No, I reserve the research strictly for after work social interactions.
My latest secretary is a beautiful woman. I gave the institute where I run my practice my detailed list of requirements and because of my accurate description of what I was looking for, did not have to go through a long list of candidates. This suited me just fine as my schedule is very busy and wasting time is never an option. My previous secretary resigned rather suddenly. As I never fully mix work with pleasure, I only slightly tested my mind theories on her. She unfortunately left before I could apply the antidote to her manufactured emotional issues. It was really her own fault, as she should have stayed longer. Now there is a poor woman who believes that her husband has whittled her away to a R100 for groceries and R10 for herself weekly servant. She also believes that she misplaces things and loses money all the time due to my implied subliminal memory loss implication techniques. I was also just starting to research a new mind technique of following her around and staring at her from a distance. She would never see me of course but I realise now the theory of someone staring at you constantly, even though you could not see them is very affective. But this is very advanced psychological study and is very new to me. I will perfect this research over time and document my findings for you all to benefit from.
Due to the high number of sexually deviant patients that come to my practice. The psychological institution that I run my practise in has had to suddenly become incredibly strict. I now have to see all my patients at my office under strict lock and key. Additionally due to the high number of germs carried by these miscreant patients they have to come and see me with white coats on. Even my new secretary has to wear a coat. In order to get through my workload of patients, I am finding I have to sleep at my office every single night now.
I will be publishing my important thesis shortly for humanities benefit. All participants in my research will be amazed at the intricate roll they played in this very important and revolutionary document. It will finally validate my position as South Africa’s leading psychological figure and mind expert.
A LESSON FOR PETRUS.
Petrus Koenraad Van Tonder was the son of a very proud South African white farmer. His family’s proud lineage could be traced back several generations, a fact of which Petrus was extremely pleased with . He was a big man , six foot two in his socks and very wide at the shoulder. Compared to his father and brothers, Petrus was a giant. His flawless upper body was broken on the right shoulder by a strange birthmark shaped like a duikerport print.
Petrus felt he was a very fair man and after a few sips of branderwyn in Koos Van Rooyans voorkamer, he would tell Koos just how fair he was to his workers. Like the time he caught one supposedly stealing mielies and he had spent several hours discussing the merits of being being fair. After the earnest discussion the supposed mielie thief to this day finds it difficult to use his left arm and still walks with a limp.
His father had taught him the valuable lesson of not showing weakness to his workers. A lesson Petrus sensed his mother was quietly and very deeply disturbed by – "women" thought Petrus " do not understand these very complicated matters". Petrus was a wonderful student of his fathers lessons and as his stress levels grew his ability to be fair and not show weakness increased. All his workers had experienced lessons in being fair, only those desperate enough to stay, put up with these lessons. Whilst metering out his special brand of fairness on his farm workers, he would hear his father’s words. "you must not be weak, you must pull out an example and let the sjambok and the boot speak to all present."
Petrus was returning from Koos’s voorkamer when he noticed a sinister shadow prowling around his parent’s grave site. Being a big man and afraid of nothing, Petrus leapt off his horse, scaled the wall of the graveyard and apprehended the grave robber. The man’s accent was unknown to Petrus, he was possibly a migrant worker , definitely not a worker from the area. The pot of fresh flowers he was stealing was evidence enough. Fuelled with brandy Petrus let loose at the vuilgoed desecrating his parent’s graves. The big man never retaliated and as Petrus’s blows smashed into him he slowly sagged to the ground. Petrus’s boot struck home time and again, whilst the man quietly begged for mercy. When Petrus’s sense of fairness was appeased he tied the man up and dragged him behind his horse a short way from the grave yard.
The next morning Petrus went to go see his prisoner. The man was an old man, big., an inch taller than Petrus and wider at the shoulder. He was lying on his side with his shirt ripped open at the back. Petrus noticed his flawless skin but his eye was now drawn to the unmistakable duiker print birthmark on his right shoulder. Petrus slowly and apprehensively looked across to what he could see as the lovingly well-kept grave of his mother.
Petrus felt he was a very fair man and after a few sips of branderwyn in Koos Van Rooyans voorkamer, he would tell Koos just how fair he was to his workers. Like the time he caught one supposedly stealing mielies and he had spent several hours discussing the merits of being being fair. After the earnest discussion the supposed mielie thief to this day finds it difficult to use his left arm and still walks with a limp.
His father had taught him the valuable lesson of not showing weakness to his workers. A lesson Petrus sensed his mother was quietly and very deeply disturbed by – "women" thought Petrus " do not understand these very complicated matters". Petrus was a wonderful student of his fathers lessons and as his stress levels grew his ability to be fair and not show weakness increased. All his workers had experienced lessons in being fair, only those desperate enough to stay, put up with these lessons. Whilst metering out his special brand of fairness on his farm workers, he would hear his father’s words. "you must not be weak, you must pull out an example and let the sjambok and the boot speak to all present."
Petrus was returning from Koos’s voorkamer when he noticed a sinister shadow prowling around his parent’s grave site. Being a big man and afraid of nothing, Petrus leapt off his horse, scaled the wall of the graveyard and apprehended the grave robber. The man’s accent was unknown to Petrus, he was possibly a migrant worker , definitely not a worker from the area. The pot of fresh flowers he was stealing was evidence enough. Fuelled with brandy Petrus let loose at the vuilgoed desecrating his parent’s graves. The big man never retaliated and as Petrus’s blows smashed into him he slowly sagged to the ground. Petrus’s boot struck home time and again, whilst the man quietly begged for mercy. When Petrus’s sense of fairness was appeased he tied the man up and dragged him behind his horse a short way from the grave yard.
The next morning Petrus went to go see his prisoner. The man was an old man, big., an inch taller than Petrus and wider at the shoulder. He was lying on his side with his shirt ripped open at the back. Petrus noticed his flawless skin but his eye was now drawn to the unmistakable duiker print birthmark on his right shoulder. Petrus slowly and apprehensively looked across to what he could see as the lovingly well-kept grave of his mother.
Suddenly the beautiful colourful flowers now strewn helter skelter, looked completely out of place, in contrast against the sombre ghostlike, white washed gravestones.
FREDERIK'S DONKEY - copyright
Magda Prinsloo was very young when she walked down the isle of the groet Kerk in Swellendam in March 1852. On her wedding day she considered herself a beautiful 16 year old woman. Not in the conceited sense, in the sense that she was constantly catching the men folk of the town scrutinising her every move, from the rise and fall of her ample chest to the way she walked down the Hoof Straat on a Saturday morning. This she felt was validation enough that she had the ability to turn heads.
Frederik Johannes was more than twice her age and had been married before. He was an impressive man with a commanding presence. It was his ochre colour eyes that intrigued her the most. A Lion had savaged his previous wife, Marie, and only her tattered dress was ever recovered. He had come into Town looking and smelling like a rag soaked in witblitze. He was emotionally distraught and rambled about wicked spirits and demented demonic lions. The spiteful talk around town was that Frederik was more than capable of controlling a wayward tongue. In fact so capable was Frederik that after the donkey had kicked Marie for the fourth time, he moved far into the interior with Marie and the donkey, away from the loose talk and the loose morals of the town.
It was several years since Magda’s wedding day; the donkey had not changed its ways. As Koos Botha pointed out to Frik Niewoud it wasn’t the fact that the donkey of Frederik kicked, it was the fact that it could follow Magda and kick her several times and always on the invisible areas of her milky white skin. He only knew that because on an uninvited visit to Frederik’s farm, far in the interior, he had bumped into Magda. Frederik chased him off the property with threats of "jy sal brand in die hell " and wicked demonic spirits. Koos felt he noticed the demonic gleam in the donkeys eye whilst making his hasty escape across the yard.
Magda had found a renewed jaunt in her step. Her beautiful smile, which had not shown itself for many years, of late crept across her face often. The missing tooth still did not detract from her radiance. She realised after all these years she still was a beautiful woman, something she found very hard to believe.
Frederik had been thrown off his donkey and as the doctor put it had suffered a crushed vertebra and could not move from the neck down. She immediately shot the donkey in front of Frederik, whilst he was propped up on the stoep. His ochre colour eyes still intrigued her showing fear for the very first time. The new donkey, bought from Koos, managed to inflict cruel blows to Frederik’s head when he sat on the stoep. She reckoned the next time the donkey found its way to Frederik’s rimpie stoel on the stoep, it would leave the way open for Koos to court her. Her blue eyes seemed to close ever so slightly and a possible faint smile traced across her lips.
The End -copyright QJD
Frederik Johannes was more than twice her age and had been married before. He was an impressive man with a commanding presence. It was his ochre colour eyes that intrigued her the most. A Lion had savaged his previous wife, Marie, and only her tattered dress was ever recovered. He had come into Town looking and smelling like a rag soaked in witblitze. He was emotionally distraught and rambled about wicked spirits and demented demonic lions. The spiteful talk around town was that Frederik was more than capable of controlling a wayward tongue. In fact so capable was Frederik that after the donkey had kicked Marie for the fourth time, he moved far into the interior with Marie and the donkey, away from the loose talk and the loose morals of the town.
It was several years since Magda’s wedding day; the donkey had not changed its ways. As Koos Botha pointed out to Frik Niewoud it wasn’t the fact that the donkey of Frederik kicked, it was the fact that it could follow Magda and kick her several times and always on the invisible areas of her milky white skin. He only knew that because on an uninvited visit to Frederik’s farm, far in the interior, he had bumped into Magda. Frederik chased him off the property with threats of "jy sal brand in die hell " and wicked demonic spirits. Koos felt he noticed the demonic gleam in the donkeys eye whilst making his hasty escape across the yard.
Magda had found a renewed jaunt in her step. Her beautiful smile, which had not shown itself for many years, of late crept across her face often. The missing tooth still did not detract from her radiance. She realised after all these years she still was a beautiful woman, something she found very hard to believe.
Frederik had been thrown off his donkey and as the doctor put it had suffered a crushed vertebra and could not move from the neck down. She immediately shot the donkey in front of Frederik, whilst he was propped up on the stoep. His ochre colour eyes still intrigued her showing fear for the very first time. The new donkey, bought from Koos, managed to inflict cruel blows to Frederik’s head when he sat on the stoep. She reckoned the next time the donkey found its way to Frederik’s rimpie stoel on the stoep, it would leave the way open for Koos to court her. Her blue eyes seemed to close ever so slightly and a possible faint smile traced across her lips.
The End -copyright QJD
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)