Category Archives: short story

That summer by Abigail George

ovicover_06_08_17‘Let’s go out tonight. My treat, Ingrid.’ Amanda said, with palpable excitement in her voice.

‘But what’s the occasion, Mandy?’ a rather withdrawn and serious Ingrid asked.

‘Ingrid, there doesn’t have to be an occasion to go out and eat at a fancy restaurant during the week.’

‘Oh, Ingrid,’ said Mandy with an urgency in her voice. ‘It doesn’t have to be your birthday or an anniversary or a promotion or something like that. When you live in a city, people go out and eat all the time. There’s no room for the mentality of a small-town brain like yours anymore. You have to think out of the box now. You’re living in Johannesburg now.’ Amanda laughed. ‘You’re such a mouse. You should meet Scotty’s Samuel. He’s also a mouse. Mouse people belong to mouse people. I’m a cat person.’

Yes, Ingrid thought to herself. I’m living in Johannesburg now. After all, I’m a city girl now, so, I should act like one.

‘What was growing up in Swaziland like?’ asked Ingrid, glancing up at Amanda while she perused the menu of the fancy Italian restaurant.

‘Boring but I had my freedom. Should we have wine with our supper, Ingrid.’

‘No, no wine for me, Mandy. To do what.’

‘What? What did you say, Ingrid?’

‘You said you had your freedom. I asked, the freedom to do what.’

‘To go about and do as I pleased. Sometimes me and my best friend in high school, her name was Susan, we’d sneak off and play truant or meet boys or smoke, I guess.’

‘Everybody does that,’ said Ingrid.

Read the whole short story in Ovi Magazine, HERE!

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The ego of mankind by Gordana Mudri

On the day I was born, The War began. Or, better to say – The War began when I was born.

Oh, how sweet was ignorance, which has let my poisoned seed to grow in the infected womb.

gordi01_400_01At the beginning, I gave them the small conflicts, caused by my impatient crying, spread with my false sweet smiles. I knew so well how to win in this game.

I’ve had the knowledge imprinted in my genes. It was written in my existence. Everyone forgot but I knew…

Oh, how sweet was oblivion, which allowed me to walk unharmed on the unchanged paths of the history, carrying the toxic legacy of my predecessors.

I was growing, seducing miserable souls, trampling over their ashes, rising to the level of the Creator himself.

Each step brought more victims, each movement was a new devastating battle. And I was walking, breathing the scent of my own victory, conquering the world.

Fear and distrust captured the flushed brains in their caves. It was so easy to lure them with worthless images and empty words. It was so easy to divide them.

And then nothing left to them, except bare life they’ve tried to protect, thinking of nothing, wishing for nothing, seeing nothing.

They followed the rhythm of the war, hoping for peace. But the war followed my rhythm, pushing them deeper in their burrows.

And I knew, it won’t stop as long as I breathe.

And I didn’t want to die. I couldn’t have died. I will never die.

I will disappear when the wind comes out of the depths, whirling stagnant air. I will hide from the storm. And the heavy rain will fill drained cracks. The ashes of my victories will cover my seed. The timid creatures will crawl out of their holes, blinded with new light, hungry for new fruits. Licking their wounds, they will build a new illusion of unity.

They will forget…

And then I will come back, with the toxic legacy of my predecessors.

Oh, how sweet is ignorance…

Oh, how sweet is oblivion…

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The apartment in Tamboerskloof by Abigail George

table01_400_01Ming always thought that ‘apartment’ was a fancy word for ‘flat’. Couples were flocking to Tamboerskloof. Buying up property there. It was a pretty nice place to raise a daughter. Have a family. A dog. A cat. That white picket fence scenario.

People could be seen walking their dogs and jogging in the afternoon sun. At that time in her life Ming was a missionary and a freelance photographer juggling both. There were times when she was younger when she had travelled all over Africa but that was another time in her life.

The photography gig paid her bills for now. But she wanted more out life. So, she decided to pack up and go and live like a hippie on a commune outside of Cape Town.

Ever since she was a little girl she prayed with her dolls. She played convent-convent with them. He dolls were nuns. Catholic. She played church with them. Sang hymns to put them to sleep.

Read the whole short story in Ovi Magazine, HERE!

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Abigail George has two books in the Ovi Bookshelves,
“All about my mother” & “Brother Wolf and Sister Wren”
Download them, NOW for FREE HERE!

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Leave or let go by Katerina Charisi

let01_400When you let something go, they say it leaves you too. And you believe that …until you find yourself for the first time thirty long years later, riding a bicycle. Because you have a grandkid that needs to learn. And maybe your knees creak and hurt, and maybe you did once let go of it… But it didn’t.

You let your childhood’s dream to go when you had to get a job. You let it go …it left you too. That’s what they told you, that’s what you learn to believe. Until many years later, your rusty fingers touch the keys of a borrowed piano. And with all doubt inside you, the forgotten melody flows in your mind… And your fingers follow confidently. Maybe rusty, but they follow. You did let go of your dream… But it didn’t.

You still remember the last time you danced. It was a warm, summer night. Next to a black wave, under a sky full of stars. How many years since then? You can’t remember anymore. But you do remember the music. Remember the steps. I can’t dance anymore, you tell me. Is that true? I ask. And then you stand on your feet and you show me how to dance. You don’t miss a single step… You did let go of it once, believing it left you too. But see? It is there! It was always there.

Just like her eyes. The eyes that haunted your mind and engraved your heart for ever. The love that never held up. The love you let go because it was wrong, was too soon, was too late. And in every pair of eyes you look at, you search for those same eyes.

No matter if you think you once let go of something, all you see in the end is that it never went away.

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Check Mortals of Megapolis I & II EBOOK
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Wanda’s daughter by Abigail George

Youth is falling. A clever winter dissolve. Light flashes during an afternoon storm and all I can remember is Johannesburg and failing miserably at school.

safr01_400I wouldn’t have made it as a teacher for children or an academic. I wouldn’t have made it as a tenured professor. I think I would have liked to teach a creative writing workshop.

It’s different when you don’t worship the ground your self walks upon. When your ego wears a shroud, a mask, a costume, and you hide behind it all of your life.

I was always a pilgrim longing with a ghost force, a sunset street, a hand with a shadow folded inside of it for other pilgrims. There’s a sound there. Do souls just have language?

We know that adolescence marks your gender in a particular way. When you find yourself at a school dance, bones and wounds cannot be told apart when you’re held close by a boy.

Women are always talking to themselves. I know what they are thinking. They want your ‘death’ if you are young.

I am a woman who runs with the wild horses. Who has a dandelion clock of hair. A strong face. I have my fingers on the sun. The English teacher has a daughter. I have none. No tribe to call.

You’re a teacher living in exile from your London. You taught me many things. Of how I could put an end to fairy tales and relationships with just one look. With a cigarette in my hand.

Red are the flowers of the walls of the arteries of my heart (and Wanda’s, and Caroline’s, and Jerusalem’s). What I do to fill the hours, whenever I’m lonely is think about grief.

Read the whole short story in Ovi Magazine, HERE!

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Cake by the ocean by Abigail George

Youth excites me. The youth in men. The youth in women. I have to hold onto the fact that all of life, human life, humanity, flora and fauna, and the lost and found is a happy gift.

ocean01_400When I was a very small child I wanted to cut holes in the floor of the sun to let the sun in. Peak into my neighbours’ attics. I did love him. There I said it. I loved Raj.

He made me happy in his own way. Don’t you want to be a mother he would often ask me with a twinkle in his eye? I would just blush and smile.

I can still hear his voice. I love you but you are a baby. You’re too cultured. Too well-educated, baby. I said I wanted children. How can I let a child raise my children?

I just haven’t found what I’m looking for yet, Raj said to me with a smile. You took my hand then and I had a fire in my soul. Leaned over and kissed me.

Now you’re are a wonderful who does not have the time of day for me anymore. I love you. Honestly, I do. I love you to death and it was another death in a succession of deaths.

I love you but you are a jerk. You’re happy being a jerk. Happy when you let me down. Whenever I started to cry you left the room, Raj, the poser.

I know what happiness is now and it is not having you around. Dancing with you in front of the television, listening to Sinatra on our wireless always brought tears to my eyes.

Read the whole short story in Ovi Magazine, HERE!

 

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The Resort by Bohdan Yuri

A light rain was falling throughout the day. A late August sprinkling that sometimes pretended to disappear but always left behind its chilling breath. It made the Catskills forget that summer was still here.

Thukrain_400e cloudy shades of grey moved steadily, the lower layer more swiftly. A faint mirage glowed through the thinner layers. It was the sun, dimmed, and not nearly as warm as yesterday.

Some of the guests at the Ukrainian Resort complained about the weather, saying that it gave them nothing to do for the rest of the day. And yet, they always talked with one another, laughing at the slightest anecdote. They seemed happy.

I on the other hand, adored the summer rain and its impending challenge; daring me to extract a magical color from its monochromatic gray cover. I always enjoyed sitting on the porch, just out of the rain’s reach, embarking on imaginary journeys that were cradled with quiet sensations of thought. Perhaps it was the natural rhythm of splashing waters that never let me disappear completely, though, it was spellbinding.

The breathless excursions of running play were usually left to the sunny empty spaces. Sometimes, I played both sides. However, on this particular day my fanciful daydreams were sliced open and, inside, I saw loneliness for the first time. I did not know that it would be so painful.

After dinner, the rain eased up a bit, enough to allow for casual strolling on the grounds by some of the guests. A group of nearby neighbors started up a volleyball game on one of the courts. A few of the younger guests joined them.

Being so late in the season, it was too cold even for swimming up here, my favorite; not too many nearby pools in the city. Unfortunately too, most of my friends from back home were either on trips elsewhere or home getting ready for school starting, and there weren’t any other kids my age to play with, only Sonya and Irena. They were sisters. Sonya was the oldest, she was four. I was nine and a half.

One time, I’d asked my mother why I didn’t have any brothers or sisters like my friends. She told me that she had gotten sick and couldn’t have any more children, a flaw in her dream and mine. I let it go because all answers are temporary at that age anyway.

Read the whole short story in Ovi Magazine, HERE!

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