“I saw what you did, I know who you are, I know what you did, I know who you are, I saw you, I know you, I know what you did…”

Archive for the category “Snippets”

Eyes … eyes were everywhere.

ISBN 978-0-620-58403-6

ISBN 978-0-620-58403-6

The pounding of my footsteps echoed through my head, leaves crunched under my feet, branches snapped against my cheeks. The forest was closing in on me, shrieking and screaming in my ears. Eyes … eyes were everywhere. Luminous, blue eyes, stabbing into my very soul. I had to get away. I had to run faster. My feet moved beneath me like streaks of lightning crashing through the undergrowth. A huge, spotted owl took flight, its massive wings stirring up a gale. I stumbled, falling down, down towards …



“We nearly ate chicken pancakes.”

ISBN 978-0-620-58403-6

ISBN 978-0-620-58403-6

(P.S. In the e-book, there are translations for any passages written in a foreign language.)
..“Daai bliksemse baaik. Jy wiet daai deng is gonna kill me one of these days! Saturday when I goes from here, the blerrie pedal comes off just as I reached the road. I mos had to walk blerrie miles before some ou stops and gives me a lift in his bakkie,” he said.
“Sam, you silly, you should have come back; I would have given you a lift.” I told him.
“Ja nee, but you doesn’t got chickens”
“Ja” he started to chuckle, “The ou with the bakkie, he had chickens. He mos gave me one for my dinner.”
“Ah, so I have to get some chickens then do I?”
“Nay” he laughed, “Daai chicken was an olympics, he saw Tant Sannie coming with a moerse groot butcher’s knife and he took off like a toasted cat. Net so.” he made a woofing noise through his lips and flung his arms up so fast he almost lost his balance. My cheeks hurt from laughing.
“Maar daai chicken was no metch for my Sannie. She tackles him like Bullet Dalton, Fwap! doer val die chicken plat! We nearly ate chicken pancakes.”
“Enough Sam, my tummy hurts!”
“Ja maar its good to lag nê.” …

“RIP. Emily Greene”.

ISBN  978-0-620-58403-6

ISBN 978-0-620-58403-6

The wall of expression, an exercise in free art for my students, lay tumbled and broken at my feet. The paintings, which were supposed to be of a personal nature, un-signed and unseen by anyone else, now lay splayed all over the room making me feel like an intruder.

When I had managed to clean up the mêlée of art materials, I got down on my hands and knees and set about returning paintings to boxes and reconstructing the wall, replacing any boxes that had been splattered with colour. I felt like a criminal covering up my crime.

As I was almost finished, one of the paintings caught my eye. A bright splash of green, brown and blue, it was a painting of a forest clearing. I put down the box and crawled over to take a closer look. The detail was amazing and I found it hard to believe that one of my children had painted it. Each tree was the same, the bark painted in stark detail and every single leaf contained a perfect blue eye. A forest of eyes stared out at me.

At the side of the painting, next to a fallen tree and a strangely shaped rock was a single, small tombstone bearing the words “RIP. Emily Greene”. My mind immediately ran through the names of the children I had taught art to, but I could not recall anyone named Greene and yet the name was oddly familiar and disturbing.

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