Love Books

And so we have results this morning.
After a fabulous, fun day of writing, stories were put to the vote. The Book Lounge team won! Congrats to a powerful team of writers!
And our Love Books team came a rocking second with just one less vote! Superb, methinks, especially with having to collaborate with such awesome writers from varied genres, crime fiction, literary and chic lit, to non-fiction.
Written in six parts, our stories went live in the order that we wrote as follows:

Fiona Snyckers, David Chislett, Jassy Mackenzie, Kate White, myself, and then Isabella Morris to round off a wonderfully surreal, incredulous tale.

Find my excerpt below, and read the full story at http://chainssds5.wordpress.com



*** ***


You can't just bomb Randburg," Peter spluttered, sending shrapnel of saliva into the tray of hors d' oevres.
The words were out of his mouth before he had a chance to think of what he was saying. His mind clicked into gear. "What I meant was, there will be no reason to bomb any place, you already have a war on your hands, Flotus!"
"And what is that supposed to mean?!" Juju bellowed. "There are no wars in Africa!"
Peter's cellphone shrieked a polyphonic rendering of 'The Final Countdown', startling everyone around him. He balanced the tray in one hand while he fumbled his track pants for the offending device.
Once retrieved, he swung around in what he thought was a polite fashion, to take the call away from his mixed bag of spectators. It made no sense to think of protocol standing between Obama's wife, his stepdaughter and the nations beloved Juju bear, when he was about to take a call from his mistress, Clarissa. She had been avoiding him all week, and he wanted to know why.
"Babe! Where have you..."
The tray caught on a basket of flowers that decorated the table in the foyer, sending flowers, pebbles and glass marbles all across the porcelain tiled floor.   Everything happened at once. What sounded like Mrs First Lady shrieking in super high pitch turned out to be Juju in obvious trauma at the wasted food now lying amidst the flowery debris. Adding to the sight that met poor old Peter's eyes was Corenza looking like she was about to faint. Security and bodyguards were ushered into the scene, looking every bit like one of those FBI secret agent shows on the television. Mrs Obama was ushered out by what seemed a dozen men in black suits. Juju was gone. He might have vanished into thin air for all you knew! Or he'd been raised in some apocalyptic stunt through the roof. It was difficult to look towards the raised glass skylight at this time of the afternoon, a bright golden hue swept into the atrium space and lit up the entire hallway.
"Clear the area, we're coming in!" More of these toy soldier types filled the area.
Corenza seemed to be in some sort of daze. One of the bodyguards grabbed the satchel at her feet. A blade poked out of it, a spark of sunlight glinting off it alerted the guard that he had found something potentially menacing. He glared at Corenza, but she seemed unfazed still, rooted to the spot like some disheveled Barbie doll. Only when the man reached inside the bag and pulled out the knife that she had hidden inside it, did she finally look up.
Peter reached her just as her knees gave way under her.
He lifted her into his arms, and made his way to the exit.
"Hold it, right there! Where do you think you're going, Mister?" the man with the satchel said. 
"She's ill. She needs a doctor," Peter said.
"She wasn't supposed to carry weapons," the man said. "We're taking her in for questioning. She may have tried to assassinate Mrs Obama! And you're coming with us, too!"
Peter looked towards the lift door that had just opened invitingly beside him. Using Corenza's limp body as he swung around, he managed to knock the guard off his feet. Once inside the lift he pressed the button for the top floor. He also pressed a few floor digits into the keypad so that they wouldnt know where he had gotten out. And then he dialed his house number. His son Sam would be home alone, Sulenza was only due back home later in the evening.
"I'm in big trouble. Come over to the Sandton Towers. Will send you a text. Just come get me. And don't tell your mother!" He got off at one of the floors and made his way down the hallway. He tried a few doors. Using a trick he had learned in the army, he managed to pick a lock and quickly made his way into room 1452. He tried to put Corenza down, but she clung to him. He reached for his phone and typed Sandton Towers, Room 1452, and then pressed the send button. 
Twenty minutes later, there was a knock at the door, and before he could get to it, the door was broken down. As expected, black suits clambered alongside army suits for a piece of him. And at the front of this mean looking gang, was non other than his wife, Sulenza. 
"What do you think you're doing with my daughter, you sick bastard!" she glared.

**** ****

*SN33ZE*

I write because its what I do. Like breathing, thinking, eating, being. Writing is something to do. It takes the dust from the sinews in the mind and scatters it just under my nose, makes me sneeze to release the collective phlegm. Get it out. And then, when the nasal passages are cleared, it allows me to breathe in the reality of a cleaner world. I take it all in. The stories from around me, and the data from within. I make notes. I present them to a greater audience. And it takes on a life of its own.

I write. Because I love the idea of feeling bloated with ideas and letting them flow through an unlikely orifice; the tips of my fingers. Like a secret door, they tap, tap, tap at the keyboard to undo the latch and let the words out. They burst forth then, spewing contempt, reason and appreciation all at once. Its a colourful blend, not always fit to smell the fresh ink of the printer's realm. But expressive and alive all the same. Sometimes the tap, tap, tap of these tips must be felt on a pressed leaf; sheaths of paper partake in their regurgitation and the force of the tapping is the inspiration for a charcoaled soul in a wooden body that must collate the tappers whispers into something solid, readable, drinkable. Pencil painstakingly carries this guarded duty, then.

I write because I must.
Drink. And be drunk on everything that life has to offer.
I write. And write. And forget to write. And then, I dream about writing. So I write.

Free writing is almost embarassing.
But. I write. Because. It's free.
Breathing should be just as free.
And thinking.
And being.
But for now, writing is.
Free.

PS: Apologies for the ramble. I'm spring-cleaning! *SN33ZE*


Copyright Shafinaaz Hassim (C) 2009

six o'clock gin and tonic

I walked into Rika's apartment a little after 3pm yesterday. The appointment was set for 2:45pm, but a young driver wandering around unknown parts of the city can be easily forgiven, or so she said.

I'm always thirsty for easy forgiveness, so I didn't argue much on that. Besides, I know at least enough not to argue with someone whose three times my age, and very astute for the average 91year old. I whisper a silent prayer in awe: God, let me be that way at 91, or not at all! This is Rika Hodgson. Veteran ANC stalwart.

And so she launches into her animated chat about the days of old; you know, when you could hide a bottle of whiskey in an old typewriter, and share it with a friend of another race, even if there was the scare of the Immorality Act hanging over their heads. But not before she has made absolutely sure of the fact that I am comfortably seated with the sun from the large bay windows swathing me in a welcome embrace, and a steaming cup of tea settled withing close reach from my notebook and pen.

I scribble and try to repaint in few words the enigmatic imagery that she spurts forth in words and facial expressions, almost as if I am being let in on secrets never told before; sometimes she takes for granted that I may not have lived a time as that. She clucks incessantly at the realisation. I release a sigh of apology.

I am quickly forgiven, and the stories unfold once again. Mr & Mrs Jack Hodgson. Their journeys into Botswana, Tanzania, India and beyond. The Pahads, the Cachalias, the Sisulus and the rest of the lineage of the anti-apartheid struggle reveals itself in yet another thread of narrative. I make fervent notes. My voice recorder laps up the milk and cream of the voice and word content of this dialogue. It retells the story to me hours later, when I have returned to my desk in a less quieter part of Jozi.
Another dotted line is drawn, making for a tangible thread between her apartment in the North and my room in the centre of Johannesburg. Voices echo around me, bouncing off the walls, tempting me to make something of them. I am impatient, but its still not the time to write. Patience.

I relive the last few moments of my visit. The endless books. The endless rays of afternoon sunlight. I got invited to stay for her six o'clock gin and tonic; said with a rather mischievous grin to highlight her ample wit, as I was leaving. Ah, I know that you don't drink, she said in reply to my laughter. Everything works around traffic, here in Jozi. I had to leave, anyway... But in many ways, I stayed.

collision course

Im doing alot of that nearing the edge kind of over-thinking these few days; and I think that when we put love and hate on a collision course, then we only have ourselves to blame. Im rambling again. Its just that there are certain of these life lessons that tend to go over my head and then I find them repeating themselves all too patiently while I sit back and scratch my head in confusion. This time the confusion levels are in a near danger zone.

I dont get it. I dont. And its no longer a person delivering a message or gifting this life shock to me. Its something more; there's this nagging feeling at the back of my mind saying there's more more more to this. So, the suspense is killing me. What is it?

More. Less, but more.
I think the space between lessons is lessening. Still, the same lessons. But like contractions before birthing, and what we hear to be the labour process, the timing between mini earthquakes is getting shorter... the end is near. I think I must get it at some point. Like really just have that lightbulb, eureka moment! Aha! I get it! Like that.. Unless the games being upped and the challenge along with it. And Im losing braincells through my nose in the process, making me worse for wear :/

There's alot going on inside; and definite lines in the sand regards how much I am willing to put up with. Those lines are forming barriers that barricade me from the row of daggers aimed in my direction. Not so sure that's a bad thing or a good thing. It just is.

This rumble of stuff from the inside needs a voice. That's the only thing I know.
And all hell will break loose when that happens.
I figure its winter anyway, so at least we'll be warm, right?
Anyone want to cuddle? Okay, make that a group hug :P

I've set myself on a collision course. I hope all bones remain intact when I'm done with my chosen encounter. I hope that indeed, what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger. And I hope that I can finally demarcate that area between pussy-footing niceties and just being true to myself. Being real. It's the freedom that I'm craving for the moment. Probably for a longer time than only now. And it scares the hell out of me!

99c

It would have been an easy celebration today; but then it's all just a whirrr of pictures and colour and emotions through my fingers when you think of it all. Now distant memories of way back then when carefree was a state of being, and forever raspberry on my lips: 99c gloss from Mr Price, a 3-door car to the Symphony of Fire and some jeans ripped up on the unforgiving tarmac. Laughter our eternal companion. Or was it all those other times: a late night phone call because your electric blue spray-can spilled its guts over the beach in tribute to me. Vanity inflated then. I can only imagine it still, seeing as this was all before MMS evidence became crucial to our existence. Or the sacred spliff on a couch in the middle of who-knows-where was a reason to barricade our shared life with all that deadly silence. Then the giggles in tandum to really nothing. Promises? You always had a knack for those. And the moments of greatest tests when we questioned each other. And you blew it all up in smoke when you shouted my name at the top of your lungs in the crowd. Often. What about that offish day; my birthday? Midnight. A long story for the guardians of the night. An empty suitcase. And a can of my favourite fizz with priceless slice-of-cake simplicity did the trick that engraved itself on this feeble mind. Unstilted.

Sigh.

You would have been worth the celebration today, if you were. I should have said goodbye when you left here. I should have. I wish I said it then. I didn't. I think I'll say it now. Ghosts of the past have no future, don't you know? Mortal presence can't keep up with that much glamour. Thanks, really. This cots getting tiny. You have to go. I can barely breathe. Still, it was fun. And you're gone, and you're here, like you said you'd always be. I know I know, a promise is a promise. But please, just go.

fancy schmansy masquerade

Last night was far more of a jol than I imagined it would be. My brother's dear friend Jehanzeb 'Jzee' Bashir is getting married tonight. So we attended a fancy dress party last night in honour of wedding crowd events and such things. Grosvenor hall in Mayfair was turned into a mini gaming zone; yea it felt like you were in one of those arcade games with lots of characters flying and floating around. About a dozen or so people fluttered past making us feel like we were seated in the midst of a paintball venue, shooting at each other with life-like water-pistols, water-rifles (some in full army gear): few were recognisable especially because of the awesome disguises that they had played with. And the make-up art was divine, of course! A Spanish Princess accompanied her Matador partner; some princesses and fairies and elves dotted the place, and I played drama queen to the shade of pink alongside my sister-in-law in red she-devil regalia, her sister in pale white crowned princessy-ness, my brother as a London 'Bobby' policeman, cousin as a erm something... fancy-ish... and groom-to-be as a ruffian-come-jester-come-rap artiste. He got messed with water, flour and choice things that needed a few changes of clothes just like in some Bollywood song sequences. Somewhat surreal, mostly tonnes of fun... altogether feelgood. Here's wishing the new couple the best that life has to offer, grand dreams and choice health in the many years ahead, iA!

I still have spurts of party 'high' in my bloodstream. 100% natural. No additives. Pics aplenty. Some to follow.

Love and Mwahs,

The Drama Queen ;)

PIC UPDATE:

fools gold

in a land of milk and honey all we ever seem to find are mounds of clay covered in powdery sand, an obstacle course of sticky tar waiting to capture and cover, then feather and debone to near perfection, a skewered lump of stuff. then theres that journey to be made along the rainbow of imagination, with the promise of great things at the end of much strife that pretends to be great fun. in a land of honey and milk all we are left with at the end of the slippery slide is a handful of fools gold. no rainbow. only more mounds of that clay from which we came. and the smell of nostalgia forming clouds of de ja vu and veils of contention and even more mirages of that milk and honey as was revealed in dreams long forgotten. and when the mist has cleared and u pick urself up, and dust off the grime of joviality (i darent say mockery!) - the pot of glittery remnants awaits in consolation - that ultimate collection of gold for the fool that was fooled for the gold.

WebComic

PS: No Idea how to make this smaller. Its the smallest that blogger allows. Please click on image to see full cartoon.

Tick, Tock, Skull-duggery...

Tick, he said. What makes you tick?
Read me. Easy as a book.
I tick. Like that clock

of time

that wants the world to twirl its hands around me;
as I curl my hands around it...

anti-clockwise to the beat and then
in mock mimicry of the moving sun
wiping the upturned bowl finger-licking clean,

then

bopping down and up. up and down.

What makes me tick? Ha!

I think I evaded that
quite nicely;

But I can tell you in two ticks

What ticks me off!

Lol. It's all those two bit
ticks and tocks that pretend

to move

hands towards the sun
then point and flail and flounder;
the intent to tick, tacky and torn...
then fall still pointing, to the ground.

Tick. Tock.

Wonder why.

It makes me tick.

It ticks me off!

It tickles me, tog.

It toggles me, sick!

What makes me tick?

Indeed. I told you so.

Now tell me why?

:P

Borrowed Time

I don't want to do this anymore... even though I love it so! I sit here, feeling like some kind of window washer on a glass skyscraper; washing away in this repetitive circular motion with the sunshine on my face, and looking in at the wonders of the snazzy executives in the boardroom with their faces painted; first a sombre grey and then layered in varying shades of pink to fake a blush and rosy lips.

My blush reflected in this larger than life mirror is of the elements ravaging my usually pristine features and of the gust of wind splaying fingers through my uncombed hair. My shades of pink are just those memories of a time before I learnt to write. You know, when I pretended that I was alive and played on in that theatre of life, a smiling collaborator to the puppeteers jesting ways.

My shades of grey are the shadows from that time. And the reminders that theatre is fiction; and real life, well... that's not for novels, dearie. Why, that's made for living! If you dare.

I remember his words now, when I told him to keep breathing. 'Everything else is a bonus,' he said. 'A bonus.'

This is borrowed time. I just remembered.

And I want to do that thing that I love doing. But I also don't. I really don't want to. Not tonight. Tonight, I just want to breath again.

Tomorrow I will go back to being the best window washer in the whole wide world. But not today. Today I want the grime to collect on their windows keeping the sun out for a day. Just a day. Then tomorrow, I will borrow time to be me again. Tomorrow I will do the work. Tomorrow, fingers will tap dance at keyboard. Tomorrow the windows will be clean again.

But only tomorrow.

Today I will rest.

After all, this is borrowed time.

I just remembered.

songs of time and travel

We're a bunch of Idols' fans... So we were watching the Indian Idols on television, and the song from the movie RACE played at some point. And my brother in law remembered Malawi. Yes, it was the Malawi soundtrack :P (We went off to Malawi in March for my brother's wedding).

Especially Pehli Nazar. We had a CD in every car after that. In my brother's car, in my car, in my brother in laws car, in my sister in laws brother's cars. You get the sense of it. Dad had a CD in the home entertainment thingie. It was all over the place. So much so that some of the songs still remind me of my ride to work along the M4, the look of the ocean (remember, I learned how to s-l-o-w down so I could enjoy the view) and navigating the twisty ride along Ridge Rd, of course. Come rain or shine, RACE was a permanent soundtrack for weeks after the Malawi trip. I had the best of the collection. Abdur Rahim made certain of it with the added remixes and whatever else he could find to download ;)

This year went by oh-so-quickly. (Well, come to think of it, so did 2007). Sometimes I feel dizzy just thinking about it. But the songs remain. We heard some other songs today. Songs that remind us of other travels. Like Cape Town. And India. And Egypt. And London. Lol. Oh yea... Kelly Clarkson, Roxette, Savage Garden, Natalie Imbruglia, Enya, UB40, U2!!! A maze of hindi soundtracks stretching the imagination from Yeh Shaam Mastani to Teri Deewani.

There are songs that remind us of childhood. And songs that remind us of school. And songs that remind us of bittersweet days of uni. Awkward moments and exhiliarating moments. Songs for rainy days and songs for scorching summer. Moments in freezing cappuccino drugged days, and moments of hearts gladdened by the quality of togetherness. Some songs played on the Hiveld graveyard shift, others in peak traffic. Oh there are those peak traffic songs for sure! Those save sanity at the bleakest moments. Or they perpetuate insanity enough to survive the chaos, especially when power failures threaten any remaining sense of humour.

Its so easy for something you can't live without to become second rate trash. This goes for songs and dresses :P

energy

energy

thrown about carelessly

ocean

swim or die

words

piercing wanton bodies

made of clay only

but memories stay

because thats what

manufactured the energy

then;

now it's nothing.

so dont worry, cos

energy...

thrown about carelessly,

no more.

faking it

it would seem that he turned out to be some kind of wannabe super hero...

calls himself 'anon'...

spews out darkness and glib poison at unsuspecting folks
and then slinkers back into the abyss where he belongs.
no call to duty.
no accountability.
just pathetic and drivelsome.

a fake superhero.
unimaginative.
and plainly nothing.
yep. a fake.

one last dance

This last dance,
Is all it takes
for a mind to say good bye.

This last dance,
when the roses have long dried
and leaves once green
are ready for their bronzing.

Just one last dance,
so i can feel that memory
of your breath
on my skin,
and that signature whisper
that you almost didn't utter
forever branding me
as your silent love.

This last dance,
is all i need to
remember that it wasn't
just a dream,
and then to
forget eyes
that smiled once,
just for me.

This last dance, in appreciation,
because you showed me
that eternity
exists.

Yes, I'm savouring this one last dance,
because you always are
and never will be.

A last dance,
is all a heart needs
to finally let you go.