Tag Archives: south africa

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 a rather withdrawn and serious Ingrid asked.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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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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Smith and Carol by Abigail George (Short Story)

Julian Smith was respectable but unhappy. A psychiatrist for nearly three decades he had experience on his side. He had a married daughter but they had never really been close.

ovicover_13_02_17.gif‘Smith, you’re a gladiator. How do you do this day in and day out offering advice? How do you live?’ It was on Carol’s lips but she didn’t say anything.

‘Sadness, Carol, always calls for introspection. Can you find the time to write?’ Smith smiled at her.

‘I love shopping the same way I love writing. The older I get it seems that I have all the time in the world to write. In my dream my mother, she didn’t have cancer. We had a relationship.’

‘That’s good. That’s a good thing. Cherish the time that you had together.’ Smith gave a hoarse little cough.

‘So, tell me a little bit about what you are writing now. What inspires you, your imagination and creativity? Are you an aspirant novelist, poet or a short story writer?’ Carol wanted Smith to tell her that she was still young. She wanted Smith to ask her to tell him what she thought of love. She wanted to hear those bright magic words out of his mouth, ‘Are you in love or are you waiting for love?’

‘Oh, I don’t know what to say to that. I haven’t written that novel yet. When I am tired of writing poems I write stories. When I am tired of writing stories I write poems. Does that make sense, doctor?’ Carol crossed and uncrossed her feet at the ankles. Smith nodded. Carol looked away. She did not meet his gaze.

Read the whole article in Ovi Magazine, HERE!

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Nelson Mandela has died

South Africa’s first black president and anti-apartheid icon Nelson Mandela has died, South Africa’s president says. Mr Mandela, 95, led South Africa’s transition from white-minority rule in the 1990s, after 27 years in prison. He had been receiving intense home-based medical care for a lung infection after three months in hospital. In a statement on South African national TV, Jacob Zuma said Mr Mandela had “departed” and was at peace.

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