Tag Archives: writer

Engage brain before mouth…

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‘Think before you speak.’ I hate that line. ‘Engage brain before mouth,’ is phrase I had continually thrown at me. As a child, I was always told to do that and couldn’t. But after our recent visit to South Africa when we stayed with my brother in law (B-I-L) in Vereeniging, I can understand why it was drummed into my head.

Vereeniging, about 80km South of Johannesburg, is about the size of Bulawayo, and suits us just fine. Also, B-I-L has a plot out of town, and that also suits me fine. I find the noise in Johannesburg tiring and unpleasant.

B-I-L house in Vereeniging

BIL plays golf at the local course every Saturday, partnered by the same guy every week. They own a share of a ‘golf estate’ in Bela Bela about 250km away and go there regularly to play.

Clubhouse at Zebula Golf Estate

Clubhouse at Zebula Golf Estate

Zebula Golf course

Zebula Golf course

A week or so after we arrived, his partner invited him to pay at Legends (golf course) which is another couple of hours the other side of Bela Bela. The plan was to spend the night at Bela Bela  and drive to Legends in the morning.

Wow, the lengths people will go to, to clout a little ball around!

BIL wasn’t over-enthralled by the whole idea. Perhaps he thought he shouldn’t desert his visitors? Or perhaps he had a bad feeling. In the end, however, he went, his golf partner traveling with him in his car…or bus rather. It’s a nice vehicle, if rather soft – B-I-L lent it to us last year to tour around South Africa.

Bus under a disused railway bridge

Bus under a disused railway bridge

Very happy to have the house to ourselves, we gaily waved him goodbye and set about doing all the things we weren’t supposed to do: ate his chocolate, and other fancy food, walked around the house naked and had wild monkey sex.

Pretty early the following morning, I was woken by a phone call, from him. Now here is a big surprise, he is such a scrooge, that he rarely uses the phone. In fact, he is such a scrooge, that he doesn’t even keep shampoo in his shower – he uses the shampoo at the golf course!

He opened with the line, “I’ve got a disaster here…A serious disaster.” Now this, is from a guy who, midwinter in Siberia, may say, “It’s a little chilly here,” or “That’s somewhat pricey…” about a 120 million rand holiday home. What could constitute a disaster? ….he’s had to spend money on breakfast, perhaps? No seriously, I imagined an accident – dead bodies strewn all over the place, or one of those mass murders you hear about so often in South Africa. My stomach dropped, I got a huge adrenaline rush. Disaster scenario’s raced through my mind. Maybe it was one of my kids – also in an accident. Or maybe family…

No, his disaster was simply that his car had broken down about 10km from Bela Bela (Warmbaths in the old days!) That’s it. No accident, no mangled bodies. His golf mates had caught a lift to Legends for their round and would see him later in Bela Bela. I flip into ‘fix it’ mode – I’m good at that. Phone around for a tow vehicle, organise the Vito to be towed to Bela Bela. Not long after, he calls to say his diesel tank (made of plastic) flexed when a rock hit it, and bashed into the fuel pump. It was totally shattered and the replacement part would take two days to get there.

Now I couldn’t possibly leave him sitting in Bela Bela all day, so I offer to drive down, keep him company until his partner arrived. Take photos of the scenery. I mean, I can easily drive through Johannesburg traffic at lunch time, hell, I even know where I’m going!

Traveling north along the N1 the Bela Bela off-ramp directly ahead, I get a whatsapp from him. This is it verbatim: “I’m drowning my sorrows at Panarotti’s opposite the Game…” I stare at the screen in horror and think, “brilliant. He is sloshed. Marvelous. That’s all I need.”

I don’t do alcohol in any form. At all. Nada. I don’t drink it, or buy it, or associate with legless people. And now I not only have to collect B-I-L from this Panarotti place, but negotiate him into my car and….oh boy. I imagined going into some dark dive, with any number of soaks propping up the bar counter, the smell of smoke and old timers and alcohol all pervading…I imagined oozing a loud, giggling B-I-L off a bar stool and guiding him outside…eeuw

My first thought was just to go up the off-ramp, turn right instead of left to Bela Bela, and just go back south! My second – I keep on driving North to Zimbabwe! That would be a solution!

I soon discover, Panarotti is a pizza place and no alcohol is served there. Not used to the heat in Bela Bela, B-I-L had to drown his sorrows with iced tea! Pity he didn’t ‘engage brain before he opened his mouth!’

So next time people, when you have a disaster such as B-I-L’s, please first think to say something like, “Everything is fine, but I have a disaster here…” And remember drowning your sorrows can have only one meaning!

What an expensive round of (non) golf!

I took some pics around Bela Bela. They weren’t great which is strange, because the area is SO African. Vast and endless and blue. On the way back to Zimbabwe we stayed over at Zebula – the photos are on my photoblog here:

This is B-I-L’s house at Zebula:

B-I-L's house at Zebula

B-I-L’s house at Zebula

Please have a look at my books.

Click here, to download Silk Threads from Amazon

Silk Threads

Click here to download A Pale

A Pale

Please post comments on the books here on my blog, or at Amazon.

You can email me at:

forfrankiekay@gmail.com

I love fan mail and discussing my books via email, so please don’t hesitate to contact me.

Silk Threads is free on Smashwords… please download a copy of Silk Threads  here:

Silk Threads

Reckless Gambol, a Silk Threads vignette can be downloaded here:

RG2.

And a copy of Jack and Jill here

Jack and Jill a short story

Please leave a comment on Smashwords

What’s in a name…?

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What’s in a name…?

What does one take to the old age home? Pardon me: retirement village!

I had no idea. I asked my daughter. She looked around vaguely, shrugged and said, “I don’t know Mother. Not much. It’s furnished.”
My oldest friend and soon to be neighbour was much clearer.
“Memories, Sybil. Memories,” she said. “Your photos, favourite books, small knick-knacks. Anything that triggers a memory; good or bad. As we get older, we need those little reminders.”
I took her at her word; wandered around the house touching objects, testing if they were special. I chose a painting because it reminded me of a holiday in the Karoo, a glass figurine from Venice. All the photograph albums.
“What about the box of photos?” Dorelle asked. “The rejects that never made it into the albums.”
We finally hunted them down in the store room off the pantry, stacked high up on a shelf. We took them up to the lounge and sat together like schoolgirls, picking through them at random, laughing at some frowning at others, straining to remember why I’d taken them.
“Yes, bring them,” Dorelle said hunching over the box. “We will have plenty of time to work out who all the people were, boring neighbours with our stories.” She withdrew one from the box.
“Tell me about this one?” she said.
Frowning, I peered at the photo she held in her hand. It was old and faded, the edges curled; purple and pink, the image very hazy. A woman, walking away from an aeroplane, carrying a huge teddy bear. It wasn’t a posed picture.
“It’s definitely you. That’s your Teddy Bear.”
She was right. It was me, sporting a beehive hairstyle and the high, high shoes that gave me such bunions, toting my giant pink teddy bear. Where on earth was this photograph taken? I could see no buildings in the background to help me identify the airport. No trees, mountains or any other features.
I shut my eyes, trying to remember back when I could wear that sculpted outfit. It pushed my front up and cut off mid thigh. I snatched at a glimmer of a memory. Shopping for shoes. Choosing a conservative heel, only three inches, but I remember conceding, an elegant thin one with a pointy toe. I realised the purple-pink, brown haze wasn’t from the age of the photo. It had really looked like that and sitting in my air-conditioned lounge I experienced a hot blast; felt my skin prickle.
“Botswana. The photograph was taken in Botswana,” I said.
Dorelle glanced at me and settled back in the sofa.
“Holiday?” she asked in that tone she has when she intends to hear every embarrassing detail.
“Hitching Post.”
Dorelle was silent for a beat. Then she barked out a laugh.
I shrugged. What a disaster. The worst six weeks of my life. How could I forget?
“I was approaching thirty, Dorelle. I wanted to settle down. I didn’t want what I saw my friends do: get married, remain in the rat race. Work while raising children. I wanted to take my time, loaf around and look after them myself. I spent a weekend on a farm in the Magalies and I decided I would like to marry a farmer. It seemed a slow life, plenty of spare time.” Dorelle’s immaculate eyebrows disappeared into her fringe, but she said nothing.
“So I put an advert into the ‘Hitching Post’ in the Farmer’s Weekly.”
Dorellle pushed her hand against her mouth, biting at her knuckles.
“A guy answered. We corresponded for some time and I flew out to Botswana.” Holding my hands up in surrender I added, “Hey, I had it all sorted. I had a list of things I wanted.”
I counted on my fingers.
“I wanted him to have a house. A car, and live on a farm. And this guy wrote so enthusiastically about the farm, his work. He told me how beautiful it was: the acacia woodland, the miles and miles of open farmland.
“How was I to know that he meant thorn trees and nothing but barren dust, three-sixty? And do you know, Dorelle he really did like that; saw something beautiful in that endless, brown nothingness.
I thought all farms had green fields and white fences with sheep and cattle. I hardly saw cattle, other than when they were collected up. Then they made more dust; workers whistling and waving their arms about, cracking huge whips. I only went once; stayed in the car, swatting the flies.”
“At least he had a car?” Dorelle said and I pulled a face.
I tapped the photograph. “Shortly after he took this, he took me out to the car park. I remember looking around, and the only car was a clapped out thing, rusting along the doors, dust all over it. I think it was once upon a time a cream colour. Can you believe that? This was the car he had raved about,” I heard my voice rising. “The car he said could go anywhere and was the most comfortable one he knew for ‘the conditions.’” I made air speech-marks. “It would go forever, he said. Bloody looked like it had been going forever,” I muttered, still furious after forty years.
Sitting on my stylish sofa, I remember the urge I had to walk back into the air-conditioned airport; away from the dry, shimmering heat, that claptrap land-cruiser and the taciturn man carrying my suitcase.
“There wasn’t enough room in the front for my luggage. He just dumped it in the back; opened the door for me.”
“Well,” said Dorelle, her voice unsteady. “At least he had manners.”
“No. The door didn’t open unless you picked it up and yanked.” I said, and she laughed. “And then when it drove on the sand, because there is nothing in Botswana except sand and dust and thorns, it sort of swam along and the guy had to wrestle it to stay on the road. So we didn’t say much on the way to the farm.”
“What was his name?” Dorelle asked.
I pressed my fingers against my forehead digging deep, but I couldn’t remember. It was something odd; something exotic. Some sort of a beautiful animal. A bird I think… but a beautiful bird. With beautiful plumage. A bird that shows off with elaborate displays to attract a mate. I remember thinking a brown man, wearing khaki and a dirty old hat, shouldn’t have a name like that. He used conservative language, and only made the minimum effort to please. He didn’t posture, or show off. Or dress up.
“His first name was common, like John or Harry. But his surname wasn’t. Something like Parrot, or Swann. Partridge perhaps.” I shook my head, striving for recollection.
“Maybe it will come to you,” Dorelle said dismissively. “The house, Sybil. Tell me about the house.”
“It wasn’t painted white, it didn’t have a cute gable and no white fences anywhere,” I said sourly. “It had a veranda right around it with broken mesh that let in every creepy crawly for miles around when he turned on the lights. And the lights, Dorelle, only paraffin lamps. Or candles.”
“Oh, how romantic!” she gushed and I scowled.
“Yes, I could light the candles, but not those lamps. The only time I tried, I broke a fingernail and nearly set my hair alight. You see, he would sit out on the veranda smoking and watching the sunset and I couldn’t join him because the mosquitoes attacked me. He would sit there, puffing away and not one of the little blighters would chew him.
“I was scared to move about the house in case I stood on a snake. I couldn’t walk around very easily anyway, because I didn’t take any flatties. The shortest heels I had were the three inch ones I bought especially for the trip. And the maid spent ages shining the cement floors until they were so slippery, walking on them was hell. She did all the housecleaning and there was a cook too. I was bored to tears, Dorelle. I had nothing to read except that stupid Farmer’s Weekly, but I didn’t want to lie in my room in the dark.
“You had your own room?”
I nodded. “He had manners, I’ll give him that much. Actually,” I added, “I had to get the action going. If I hadn’t, we would never have got round to doing anything…” I broke off and a flush came up my neck, spreading from my chest. Dorelle jumped at it.
“What?”
“Even that!” I said angrily. “I cozied up to him one evening, intending to move the relationship to the next level and he asked me if I had the clap!”
Delighted, Dorelle leaned back against the sofa, giggling uncontrollably.
“Yup. He said the last girl he had been with had given him a dose, and he didn’t want it to happen again.”
“Oh, Sybil,” Dorelle moaned, dabbing at her dark mascara. “What a Philistine,” she added and I finally grinned at her. It was funny. Now. Forty years later; three husbands and several lovers ago.
“But don’t worry, for all his protestations, he was a dog after all. Like most men.
“We were invited by our neighbour for a braai. And let me tell you, it was not just down the road or anything. Getting there was sort of like the Dakar Rally. We left early, just after three and arrived after dark. There were a few other people there, and we all stood about talking…and our hostess positively drooled all over him. I can remember being furious. So much for Mr Polite Guy. On the way home, he had some BS story about how he usually didn’t visit them because she had the hots for him and he was principled and blah de blah…I got so cross with him…he told me that I should either shut up or walk. Can you imagine that?”
“So you got out and walked?”
I nodded.
“In your high heels.”
I nodded again and she sniffed into her hankie.
“He just drove off. Thank goodness his man jumped off the back.
“The only part of the entire visit I really enjoyed was listening to the guy crap all over his boss the next day; moaning about how he was not employed to chop leaves for me to walk on.”
Puzzled, Dorelle looked a question.
“He cut bushes and laid them down on the ground to protect my bare feet from the stones.” I explained and she grinned.
“At least someone had manners!”
“I’m not so sure about that,” I said. “When his boss muttered something like, it was either that, or explaining things “the African Way…” his man snorted and then spat, a long, brown disgusting spray and walked away.” I shuddered.
“I flew back to Jo’burg a few days later and not long after, I met Denzil.”
“You see,” said Dorelle. “You need to have something to jog your memory. Don’t forget to pack that box.” She hiccuped again and made another unsuccessful attempt at clearing her make-up.
“What a great story, Sibyl,” she said standing.

Packing the photographs back into the box, I realised the others he had taken during that six weeks must be in there somewhere. I scrabbled about, pulling one out.
Me, standing on the steps leading to the veranda. Another of me under a huge thorn tree near the gate.
Peering closer, I saw a dark blob on one side, high up in the branches. A bird had nested there, I remember; tall brown and scrappy, making its messy nest from thorns. Staring down at the photograph, I finally remembered the man’s name.

.
Peacock. John Peacock

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Peacock
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Please have a look at my books.

Click here, to download the Amazon version of Silk Threads

Click here to download A Pale

A Pale

Please post comments on the books here on my blog, or at Amazon.

You can email me at:

forfrankiekay@gmail.com

I love fan mail and discussing my books via email, so please don’t hesitate to contact me.

Silk Threads is available on Smashwords…if you are into BDSM and more explicit scenes, please download a copy of Silk Threads  here:

Silk Threads

And a copy of Jack and Jill here

Jack and Jill a short story

Please leave a comment on Smashwords

Free…

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My books are free on Amazon today…

Click here, to download A Silken Thread

A Silken Thread

Click here to download A Pale

A Pale

Please post comments on the books here on my blog, or at Amazon.

You can email me at:

forfrankiekay@gmail.com

I love fan mail and discussing my books via email, so please don’t hesitate to contact me.

Silk Threads is available on Smashwords…if you are into BDSM and more explicit scenes, please download a copy of Silk Threads  here:

Silk Threads

And a copy of Jack and Jill here

Jack and Jill a short story

Please leave a comment on Smashwords

I had a dream…

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…and often my dreams are very realistic, vivid and occasionally, pretty funny. Some could be made into movies or at least short you-tube videos! Unlike many people, my dreams are often complete and contain details. Like everyone, they have some basis in reality. So I may be visiting the Falls, but have my cat with me..I guess because while I’m dreaming, she is lying at the end of the bed purring and that gets incorporated in somehow…

IMG-20140515-WA0000

 

The Nyamandhlovu road starts off as a double lane, in very good condition. There are no potholes and early in the morning with alot on my mind, its easy to day-dream, easy for the foot to settle on the accelerator. There are no pesky speed traps, not much traffic other than the tiny kids who run to school in the very cold, early morning. They run along barefoot, carrying their shoes, to preserve them! Read the rest of this entry

Pick on someone your own size…

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The soil is a grey colour in Kezi, bleached hard by the hot sun. Occasional clumps of grass push up between large grains of sand. Small holes litter an open patch. Animal ambushes.
A Matabele ant, traveling fast through the bush as if on a trajectory, marches along. Matabele ants are huge. They have hard shiny skins, and giant pincers at the front. They are a glossy black. They sting, but only if you annoy them, or stand on them. At some times of the year, they group together and march along in black rivers, thousands of them. Through the bush, over roads. If a car drives over them, they let off a distinctive smell, which unless it has been experienced cannot be described. They sometimes let off that smell even when they are marching through the bush, undisturbed.
At other times of the year, they are solitary, as today. Picking its way along, it climbs over the occasional clump of grass, or heads for the few open patches in between, never deviating from its predetermined route.
A spider, alerted by minuscule vibrations on the surface of the soil rushes out of a little hole in the middle of the open patch. It dashes over to the ant, appears to hug the shiny back end. Falls off. Retreats. The spider’s tiny front pincers cannot penetrate the shiny armour and the ant continues without even a hitch in its step. Not with the smallest deviation of its course does it indicate it has noticed anything at all, untoward.
Utterly outclassed, the spider retires to its hole, to await something more in its league. Something softer, its poison shafts can impale.

Spider

 

 

~oo~00~oo~

Please have a look at my books…

 

Click here, to download A Silken Thread

A Silken Thread

Click here to download A Pale

A Pale

Please post comments on the books here on my blog, or at Amazon.

You can email me at:

forfrankiekay@gmail.com

I love fan mail and discussing my books via email, so please don’t hesitate to contact me.

Silk Threads is available on Smashwords…if you are into BDSM and more explicit scenes, please download a copy of Silk Threads  here:

Silk Threads

And a copy of Jack and Jill here

Jack and Jill a short story

Please leave a comment on Smashwords

 

off a ranch in Matabeleland…

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They took the boy off the farm, from under the endless African skies and sent him to Europe, to fight for the land his father had left, more than twenty years before. They swapped the dry dusty vastness for the trenches, the mud, stench. Bombs and gas. The boy watched in horror as friends were blown to smithereens, or died screaming, hopelessly pushing entrails into the tattered skin that in the morning had been a young man’s muscular stomach. Read the rest of this entry

Leopards…

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RABSON Dube worked at the wildlife orphanage. He fed the animals, cleaned the cages and helped out around the place. A simple soul, he liked his job. He drank too much, but he swore this helped with his migraines.

Tall, with rounded, barrel chest and powerful arms, the task of carrying meat to the lions and bags of food to the elephant were easy for him. The smell of rotting meat and dung from the animal cages permeated his being, but Rabson didn’t appear to notice.

At night, in a dark alley, this spectre would be scary. His appearance was alarming, mostly on account of his bright red eyes. Inside, Rabson was a gentle soul with cataracts. Son of a scout and brought up on a private game ranch, he was good with animals, understood them, liked to talk to them. In his workman clothes, old overalls, usually open to the waist at the front, and a cheap pair of plastic gumboots he blended into the background, invisible to most visitors to the orphanage. Read the rest of this entry