She fumbled around in the dark looking for the box of matches she remembered seeing on the mantle that morning. If she could just get one match lit then it wouldn’t be so frightening anymore. She could relax. Calm down. And stop being afraid of the things that go bump in the night. But they weren’t there. She was sure they were next to the little troll statue that he had obscurely named “Fred”. Fred the troll. What a bizarre man she was dating. Instead of finding the matches, her hand settled on a small lidded pot that was nestled between a bunch of glass bottles and an empty vase. She picked up the pot and turned it in her hands, tracing the patterns with her fingers before slipping it into her coat pocket. She wondered momentarily why she would do such a thing and then continued her search for the matches. Of all the days for the lights to trip, she thought to herself. At least if Paul was around she wouldn’t be feeling this vulnerable. More
The agent tells me that the tree is several hundred years old, but I dismiss that. The tree is not indigenous and people have not been living in this area for as long as he suggests the tree to have been there. How else can it be growing here if not for people bringing and planting it here?
Yes, I think I will buy the property, but that massive eyesore, which isn’t even indigenous, has to go. Sales people will tell people anything they want to hear, but he needn’t have worried. The house was a bargain, had 5 bedrooms, a dining room, very large lounge, real cottage style kitchen and two bathrooms. It’s located on 1 acre of beautiful land with fruit trees, including two avocado trees and some kind of greenhouse which is a little dilapidated, true, but quaint. More
Nine Weeks Early by Nadine Larter
It’s unsettling how the quiet of an empty labour room can seep into your psyche. The monotonous tick of the overhead clock seems so unrelated to the agony of moments before. Four sixteen, it tells me. You had your baby at four sixteen.
There’s not even enough blood left to make me feel that this particular clock is truthful. It is only the ache down there where the doctor cut me to make sure my child had no struggle in coming out which insists that something else has happened. More
The M16 feels familiar in my arms as I crouch-run up the abandoned steps of a burning building. The quick tap-tap-tap of gunfire sounds in the distance with an intermittent tap-tap closer by. I am the last man alive in my unit, and stuck behind enemy lines. I read somewhere, a lifetime ago, “If it’s going to be, it’s up to me” The thought is fleeting and gone almost as quickly, I spend no time thinking where I read it, when I read it, or even in what context it was presented to my then younger, inexperienced eyes.
I keep the assault rifle at the ready, taking the corner with care. I’m shocked to see two enemy soldiers, almost side by side, guarding the entrance from a nearby window. I spare a moment to feel grateful that I survived that; that they somehow hadn’t seen me enter. I slip my knife out and sneak up on the nearest soldier. Putting a hand to his mouth I quickly slide the blade over his carotid artery. I hold him tight while I wait for the life to leave his shuddering body. Carefully, I lay him down at my feet. Too late! The second soldier spotted me. I squeeze two rounds off from my conveniently near 9mm. My heart pounding in my chest, I take a moment to just breathe in my good fortune.
Holstering my 9mm, I crouch-run down the dark passage, another corner, clear! The building seems to have a basement, a good place to set the explosives, the enemy likes using basements for their base of operations. It should be investigated. Heart pounding in my chest, I sneak down the ramp, rifle at the ready…
Just as I turn the corner, gunfire explodes all around me; a fine red mist clouds my vision… then, flashing in red…
ROUND LOSS!!!
Here on this floor
Here on this floor where eyes of mine
Received their green a thousand times
From yours of blue and heart so pale
This love of mine lay doomed to fail More
My Hamburger Smile
She taught me the Hamburger Smile…O hell she makes me smile…
I really first met her on the ice that day. I knew about her through seeing her sitting on the stands in the “parent’s row”…but that was it. I needed to know more, and this is what I knew so far:
I knew she was a Scuba diver, her jacket said so. Being a diver myself that peaked my interest. I knew she is a mother; her son was on the ice as well. But that’s where it ended. I wanted to know more, I wanted to know everything!
Assholes
Hero’s aren’t born, they’re made.
I read this tagline on the poster of a generic superhero movie. Who the fuck believes in shit like that? Maybe those who are shat out from a dying sun, the last of race of superhuman hominids who believe that it is their duty to protect their newly adopted planet from peril – bullshit. More
My nail taps in concert with the massive clock on the wall, Tic…. Tic… Tic… TIC… TIC… TIC… Oh my god, make it stop, or move faster, or something! I can’t take this anymore. If that vile man so much as looks at me again I’m going to scream! Do this Amanda, do that Amanda, have you followed up on the quote (which I’ve requested four times and followed up on three times!!). Have you forwarded your latest report yet, have you submitted your stats… fuck this, I’m going for a smoke. I grab my cheap ass smokes and realize halfway down the passage that I’ve left my cell and my lighter behind. Fuck, can things get any worse? I traipse back and wouldn’t you know… “Amanda!” I’m starting to hate the sound of my own name. More
Amanda Smit is a poet and writer from Cape Town. She has written poetry since she was 15 years old and is currently working on her first novel. She works full time in the IT industry but enjoys playing guitar when she is not spending time with her husband and daughter.
My soul of carbon paper. All the words in my book of life shows a scar.
Splendidly scratched into my fragile essence.
Bits and pieces, like dust, lost in the winds of time,
and so some of this dust stayed behind, and the etching it made in the fibre itself, a memory…