He sat there, transfixed in his position. It was not an entirely comfortable position, more of a pause in the usual cause of transition. The pause happened as he was about to go empty his bladder, incessantly pounded upon by the gin and tonic he’d been imbibing in a futile mission to drown the pain …
They chased the moon. Hand in hand. Sweaty hands squeaking against each other. But never letting go. Tightly clasped. Like white and milk. Two inseparable friends. Except when there’s chocolate involved. Or strawberry. Bubble-gum even. These three tend to break up this pure friendship, in the guise of sweetening things up. Why does anyone need …
There lay two socks together. Two socks, not a pair of. No – far from it. One sock, long almost as if a stocking, was a dull pink with shades of wear and tear. Especially around the heel. There the pink had faded to a translucent off-white. Which today looked like a stained white. For …
These thoughts were first presented at “Deputy Boyfriends & The Sex Revolution: A Debate” hosted by the CUT Debate Society on the 10th of May 2017 at the Central University of Technology (Bloemfontein). They were later refined for presentation at TEDxYouth@Kingsway on the 20th of December 2017 in Maseru. Herein is that latter presentation in …
It’s a chilly night. He knew it’d be chilly even though it is still February, and he told her as much. But none of the jackets matched with her outfit, decided on weeks ago, so she dared not interfere with decisions made early and sober. So she ignored his warnings. It was summer. She was …
You should’ve waited for me. But you never said I should. Did I have to? Of course not. So you knew? I knew. Still you went ahead. Without me. How long was I supposed to wait? Forever if needs be! Silence grabbed the feed by the scruff and made it its bitch. Heavy breathing …
“His solitude was the one thing he valued most,” the story read. A weird story it was indeed. A story of a writer; about the writer’s writing. Like Kafka this writer “need[ed] solitude for [his] writing; not ‘like a hermit’ – that wouldn’t be enough – but like a dead man.” Like Kundera the writer …