I'm getting a new phone. :)
A nokia E65. It's so cool. Way cooler than all you losers's phones. :P
4/30/2007
4/26/2007
Loss
“Calm down.”
“There’s been an accident!”
“Breathe in and out. Calm down.”
“There’s been…”
“In and out.” He grabbed her shoulders to steady her.
She collapsed within his grasp and he guided her fall to the ground. She began to sob. He gently stroked her back as he knelt down beside her. It tore at his heart to see her like this; six months hadn’t numbed him at all. She was a fragile, miserable, damaged mess.
He sat with her and consoled her until the sobbing and shaking ceased. She became perfectly still, and her gaze didn’t shift from the cold floor tiles upon which she half-lay half-sat. “Was it a dream? Was it all a dream?” she asked, her voice pure desperation.
“No.”
“Tell me it was an f-ing dream!” she screamed pleadingly at the impassive sea of marble, her voice echoing as it bounced from wall to wall of the cavernous room.
“I can’t. It happened. They’re gone – you’re never going to see Michael or Gabbie again.” He hated this part. It was all he could do not to break down himself.
She looked straight into his eyes; he could see the path the tears had taken on their voyage down her cheeks. “No... You’re lying... Why are you lying to me?”
He ran a troubled hand through his hair. That was the thing – he wasn’t lying, although sometimes he wished he could. It seemed like it would be so much easier. He felt that his resolve was weakening – he didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up. Night after night he went through the same thing. Night after night he felt like a piece of himself broke off and shattered. It was just so hard, so draining. He was only twenty-one.
He swept a ringlet of blonde hair away from her eye but she seemed oblivious to it. She just kept staring at him quizzically. He looked into her sad eyes earnestly, “I’m not lying Case. You don’t know how much I wish I was, but I’m not…”
She slapped him, as hard as she could. Shakily she got to her feet and ran back up the stairs, her nightgown flowing along behind her. She managed to look so graceful at the most impossible times. For a few minutes he stayed kneeling on the floor, his cheek stinging. Eventually he got to his feet and turned off the lights. Slowly, he made his way to his bedroom, climbed into bed, and lay awake with his thoughts.
And I saw it all.
* * *
Guilt
Her shriek must have reverberated off every wall and high ceiling in the manor. He was on his feet in seconds; it was not a normal scream. His bare feet pounded against the icy tiles but he didn’t notice their coldness. As he sprinted down the hallway in his boxer shorts her safety was his only concern.
He came to her door and it flung open centimetres from his face. Before he knew it a man clad entirely in black set upon him. The shock of seeing this intruder immobilised him for a split second, but it was all the time his assailant needed. A fierce blow to the stomach left him doubled-over and winded, a kick to the side of the head knocked him to the ground. His head throbbed and his vision was blurred, but he managed to roll away and quickly get back to his feet. Then he saw past the black-clad invader into her moonlit room; her white nightgown had caught his attention. Suddenly he could see with perfect clarity. She was writhing under the clutches of another man just like the one before him. An intense anger enveloped him.
His attacker didn’t waste any more time and lunged at him. He had no time to side-step – his back slammed against the wall. The plaster smashed from the force of the tackle, causing a painting to fall to the ground; its frame met the tiles with a resounding crack. She shrieked again hysterically, “Where are you Michael? Where are you?”
He wasn’t Michael but he was all she had. He began to beat desperately at the man’s head as hard as he could. The invader started to retaliate. Blow after pained blow he struck at his combatant. From the other room her squeals became muffled and all he could hear was the sound of breathing. Tapping into a desperate, angry strength he swung his arm in a wide arc, catching the invader in the temple. He felt the man go limp almost instantly. He staggered to his feet and focused his eyes on her room.
Rather audaciously he stumbled straight through the doorway. He readied himself for pain once more, but none came. His gaze fell upon her. She had her back to him and was standing eerily still. Her shoulders were slumped. He peered around her to see what she was staring down at. He saw a lifeless black shape lying in a small pool of blood. She looked back over her shoulder at him. “Michael’s not coming, is he?” she said quietly.
“No,” I whispered to her, racked with guilt. Although of course she wouldn’t hear me.
“No.” He answered, taking her in his arms.
* * *
Promise
“It’s not safe here anymore, we have to leave,” he said, sounding much less afraid than he felt. Inwardly he was still in shock – not only by the suddenness of the attack, but also by her admission of the permanency Michael’s absence. Since his brother’s disappearance she’d been in a perpetual state of traumatised denial. The attack must have jolted her out of it. Seeing a sign of progress fortified his will.
He winced as she gently touched the side of his head. “You’re bleeding.” Blood had been running down the side of his face since the first kick from the man in the hallway. A man who could wake up at any moment, they had to get moving.
She touched his bottom lip softly; he could only guess that it had been cut and was bleeding too. Then she slowly ran her hands over his smooth, hard chest. The sensation was amazing, but uncomfortably wrong. He took her hands in his, removing them from his chest. “Come on Case, we have to go. Grab some clothes and as few other things as possible. Can you do that?” She nodded twice and cast her eyes downward. He gave her hands what he hoped felt like a reassuring squeeze, then turned to walk back to his room.
“Nick.” He was at the doorway.
“Yes?” She looked like a bloody angel.
“Thank you.” He smiled painfully and walked back down the hall.
I prayed Casey would take Gabbie’s photo with her.
* * *
Hope
He watched as she rubbed the sides of the photo frame over and over between her thumb and index fingers. She was gripping it so tightly that her knuckles were white. He often saw her sleeping with the photo lying on her pillow; as though she was sleeping with her daughter next to her again.
He shook the memories of his niece from his mind – he had to think, to figure out where they could go that would be safe. He thought of the men still inside the house. He didn’t want to ask her how she’d managed to kill that man, and it didn’t really matter anyway. He had done his best to tie up the other one, so hopefully they had enough time to get away before he summoned others.
She was still staring intently at the image of Gabbie as the first light of morning shone through the windscreen and into the car. The photo in her hands seemed to illuminate; streaks of light shone and bounced and danced off the silver frame. “Home.” She spoke the word with such assuredness. “We need to go home.”
He sat motionless for a moment, and then against all of his better judgement said, “Home it is.”
He turned the keys in the ignition.
I rejoiced.
* * *
Truth
Night had fallen once more as they pulled into the driveway of the single-storey suburban house. She had lived there with his brother for six years. She had been through incredible joy and unknowable hurt whilst living within those walls. He could only imagine how she must have been feeling seeing it again.
They got out of the car. “So what now?” he asked, nervously scanning their surroundings.
“The swing.”
“What do you think you’ll find?”
“I hope we’ll find answers, Nick.”
He looked at the photograph of Gabbie that she was still clutching. It showed her sitting on a swing hanging from the giant maple tree in their backyard. It looked as though it had been a sunny autumnal day. Patches of sunlight had crept through the dense foliage and the ground was littered with leaves; at least two were frozen in their slow descent just beside her. The expression on Gabbie’s face was sweet. She was a very pretty little girl. Her eyes sparkled as if she knew something the photographer wasn’t supposed to know.
They walked through the house. It had been ransacked – furniture was upturned and smashed, unimportant documents were scattered about the floor – but she seemed unperturbed. She just walked on through it all resolutely and then out into the backyard. He marvelled at how much she’d changed over the course of just one day.
He watched as she stood before the swing and grabbed hold of one of the ropes, as if making sure it was real. She lingered there for a moment before approaching the great tree. There was a small hollow about a metre up from the ground. She reached inside and felt around. Suddenly her arm was still – she’d found something. She pulled her hand out of the hollow and he saw that she was holding an envelope. There was one word written on the front: ‘Casey.’ She carried it back to the light of the house, and he followed along behind her.
He’d received a letter from his brother too: six months ago. It instructed him to take Casey to a manor far away in the mountains in the event that anything untoward happened. Only there would they be safe, and it was there that they must stay. His brother gave him no explanation, only his eternal thanks and love.
They were in her bedroom now, and she sat down on the underside of her overturned bed.
He sat down next to her. She opened the letter slowly, taking care not to tear the envelope. She unfolded it; he felt her tremble slightly as she read the first line.
I thought that I could save Gabbie, I really did. I thought that if I had enough money I could fix the whole thing. But you can’t fix cancer. And especially not with money. I watched my wife and brother as they learnt the truth about what I’d done. How my inability to cope with the promise of loss undid me, and forced them into hiding. How ashamed and sorry I was. How I hoped that they would forgive me. How I prayed that no harm would come to them.
A wave of relief washed over me; they knew the truth. And now she was strong again. They would be ready to face whatever lay ahead of them. They had each other and they had hope. And I would continue to watch them, and be with them, be it only in spirit.
4/13/2007
And another thing....
Please ignore my terrible hair in the photo below!
Thank you.
Whilst this post seems more light hearted I'm still angry, sad and even more confused after reading someone elses blog. So yeah.
Things smell.
And not particularly rosey either.
Or like the smell outside a fast food place, cos that's awesome.
No things are definitely a bit pooey.
Waiting for things to depoo-ify,
Dale.
Thank you.
Whilst this post seems more light hearted I'm still angry, sad and even more confused after reading someone elses blog. So yeah.
Things smell.
And not particularly rosey either.
Or like the smell outside a fast food place, cos that's awesome.
No things are definitely a bit pooey.
Waiting for things to depoo-ify,
Dale.
Angry Chicken
I don't get angry very often, so this is pretty huge!
Where does someone get off saying that they can see me lying too much in the future?
What gives them the right to shut me off from them without reason? Without explanation?
I don't deserve to be kept in the dark or treated that way.
How can they be angry at me for something I have no control over? And something that is so much more heart-breaking for me than it ever could be for them?
You're not going backwards.
I don't understand.
Yet I still want nothing more than for things to be how they were, more than anything in the world.
You've pissed me off but I love you as much as ever.
And I'm gonna hang on (literally cling to you if I have to!) until you come around.
Talk to me.
See me.
Stop making me angry and sad.
Love Chicken.
[---------vent post over---------]
4/04/2007
Outline of "Disgrace"
Lucy is a young woman who lives in rural, post-apartheid South Africa. She runs minds dogs and sells flowers for a living. In Disgrace her father, David (the narrator of the the story), comes and lives with her for a short while. During his stay they experience an attack by three African men. David is set on fire and Lucy is raped. She decides not to press charges because she recognises how futile, and potentially even more dangerous, it would be to do so. She keeps the child that eventuates.
Her neighbour is a respected African man who used to work for Lucy named Petrus. It turns out that one of Lucy's rapists is his wife's brother; Pollux. Pollux is mentally deficient. Pollux moves in with Petrus one day.
Lucy concedes to an offer from Petrus to live with him, for protection.
This summary is getting disjointed and crap... Well it is 2am and I've just got home from work, so it's allowed to be I suppose. I can't be brilliant all the time. :P
Disgrace is centred around (and focalised through) David's character, and as such we can't learn all that much about Lucy and her thoughts, let alone her ethics. One can only assume. Lucy's role in the story is just one part of David's journey (if you can call it that).
It is an extremely well-written novel that confronts the reader. It is also very philosophical and encourages thought (as all good Literary Studies texts should!). Particularly about 'the other' and colonialism for those of you who are so-minded.
I'm tired now.
Me.
Zzzz...
Her neighbour is a respected African man who used to work for Lucy named Petrus. It turns out that one of Lucy's rapists is his wife's brother; Pollux. Pollux is mentally deficient. Pollux moves in with Petrus one day.
Lucy concedes to an offer from Petrus to live with him, for protection.
This summary is getting disjointed and crap... Well it is 2am and I've just got home from work, so it's allowed to be I suppose. I can't be brilliant all the time. :P
Disgrace is centred around (and focalised through) David's character, and as such we can't learn all that much about Lucy and her thoughts, let alone her ethics. One can only assume. Lucy's role in the story is just one part of David's journey (if you can call it that).
It is an extremely well-written novel that confronts the reader. It is also very philosophical and encourages thought (as all good Literary Studies texts should!). Particularly about 'the other' and colonialism for those of you who are so-minded.
I'm tired now.
Me.
Zzzz...
Lucy's Plight
Preposterously pregnant now, her stomach bulbous and her sturdy frame fuller than a few months before, she makes her way towards her flowers. Katy plods along behind her. With a supporting hand on her arched back her walk is not so much a walk as it is an awkward, labouring waddle. Every day she has made this trek to her flowers unaided, and every day she has proceeded to tend to them – much to the objections of her GP, David and lately even Petrus – but it is important that she gardens. It is something she feels she must do; something that helps her remain true to herself.
Panting lightly but trying not to let it show, she arrives at her refuge, and her senses are bombarded all at once. A myriad of colour greets her eye, an indescribable fragrance meanders towards her and gradually wafts up her nose, and the faint buzz of selfless, hardworking insects trickles into her ear. All of which warms her heart. Standing before her months of hard work and looking upon it, she is overwhelmed by an immense feeling of pride. This is her work, her accomplishment, the fruits of her labour. She retrieves her gardening tools and slowly, carefully kneels down before a section of wildflower.
Although she derives a great sense of enjoyment and satisfaction from her gardening, it is also a process that facilitates thought. For the next hour or so she will not look back at Petrus’s house, where she now lives, nor will she yield to any distractions; her flowers and her thoughts are all-consuming.
The move was more for convenience’s sake, and because of the insistence that she do so from everyone around her. Succumbing was not easy, but she saw it not as a defeat, but as a sensible compromise.
Spade in hand, she thinks on. Whilst she has declared to have had no affection for the country and what used to be her land many times before, her view is now somewhat, although not altogether, different. How can she claim to love herself yet not love the land, which she has come to see herself more and more closely intertwined with over the course of her pregnancy? This joy of nurturing her flowers from little seedlings into thriving, blooming, spectacular creations, and being allowed the opportunity to cultivate the land so; it is something to be thankful for. The land cannot help who inhabits it, nor control the actions of those that do. The land is not responsible for the evils which she has encountered and will never forget – it is reliable in its stability and consistency. She can depend on the land, it will always be there, stable. She takes comfort from this.
Her mind wanders and she finds herself thinking about the life inside her. As if on cue she feels the baby kick, and momentarily stops uprooting rebellious weeds. Still on her knees she straightens her back as best she can for comfort and to marvel. Raising a child was not a decision she had given much thought to in the past – given her nature she had all but ruled out the possibility – but the prospect of being a mother, she decides, sits well with her. Sure, she is apprehensive, but what mother isn’t? She knows within herself that she will not treat her child as a manifestation of that day. The child is not at fault, he or she will receive her boundless love.
A wave of nausea sweeps over her, no doubt the strong smells surrounding her the catalyst, the trigger. But she waits it out resolutely, fighting off wave after wave until the discomfort and unpleasantness subsides.
She stands up to fetch the secateurs and twine – the market is tomorrow and the flowers are in their prime. She has been to every Sunday market since moving in with Petrus. She and David go together, setting up her stall each week. Many of the passers-by whisper to each other as they pass her stall. Whether they know the truth or have made their own assumptions about her pregnancy she does not care. She still has her loyal customers, and it’s not about making money to her. The flowers she displays not in hope of benefiting, but to showcase what she and the land have accomplished together. She has also come to appreciate the particular allotted time with David. It is the only time they spend together, but she is glad they could reconcile to some extent. Though his irony and preoccupation with himself frustrates her to no end, she often finds herself delighting in the more friendly debates they share once a week. And he is there, making an effort; standing tall and proud by his child and his child’s decision. He may not have been a model parent, but he has not failed her.
She finishes off her gardening for the day; bundles of flowers lie bunched and tied in a box together with potted ones. Katy watches her, apparently uninterested as usual, as she struggles to pick up the box and waddles, protruding-stomach first, back toward Petrus’s house in the fading late afternoon night.
*
She has had relatively few issues with Pollux. Moving into Petrus’s home, living in such close proximity to Pollux was her main concern. He has not peeped on her in the bathroom again, as far as she knows, although sometimes she catches in his expression a hint of desire; a desire to exert power over her like he has before. Whilst she is not paralysed with fear, she sleeps with a hammer in the top drawer of her bedside table. Once burnt, forever scarred. But she does not let her scars dictate her actions. They are there, ugly and permanent, but they will not control her. She will not let them.
Her bed groans and creaks as she attempts to find a more comfortable sleeping position. She realises she is being kept awake by the moonlight seeping in through the opening in her not quite closed curtains. As she approaches the window a slight breeze cools her face and causes her nightgown to billow slightly. The sensation is wondrously refreshing. She is overcome by a mysterious happiness. A few moments later she returns to her bed content and in high spirits.
*
Her door creaks and she is immediately drawn to consciousness. Straining in the half-light to determine the identity of the figure, she sits up. ‘Hello? Is something the matter?’ But the figure does not respond. She can tell now that it is Pollux, her eyes having adjusted quickly. ‘Pollux? Is that you?’ she says, trying to make her voice sound casual. Again he does not respond. He has not moved from the doorway. Her heart rate quickens. Petrus and his wife are sleeping at the other end of the house. She could scream if he did anything, and the hammer was only an arm’s length away.
She feels a wetness soak her lap and dampen the bottom of her thighs. Oh no, not now, she begs. ‘Pollux, go get Petrus. Please hurry, I need to get to the hospital as my water has just broken.’
He takes a step inside the room. It is too dark to see his face.
‘Pollux, go quickly!’ she pleaded, starting to swing her legs over the side of the bed.
She turns away from him in order to lift herself up off the bed, but suddenly he is upon her, pushing her back down. She tries to scream but he has his hand around her throat, choking her. He is naked but for his underwear, which he disposes of almost as quickly as he hikes up her nightdress. She writhes beneath him but he is too strong. He forces himself into her. She is utterly petrified, and running out of air. She digs her nails into the hand that is choking her but he just squeezes harder. Her first contraction rocks her, but at least it is a natural kind of pain. It stirs her into action. Pollux continues to clumsily but forcefully thrust in and out of her, a sickening expression on his face. She reaches desperately for the bedside table now, tears escaping her eyes. She grasps for the handle of the hammer, aware that she was becoming weaker with each horrid second.
It strikes Pollux on the temple. Instantly he becomes limp and collapses on top of her. A sense of urgency takes over her and overrides the pure shock of what has just happened. She must go to her flowers.
She pushes Pollux off of her and stumbles to her feet. She is ravaged by another contraction and needs to steady herself against the wall. As soon as it is through she begins the journey she has made so many times over the past few months. Except this time she is wearing only her soiled white nightgown. Countless times she is brought to her knees on the way to her refuge, so often so that they begin to bleed freely as graze builds upon graze.
But she makes it to her flowers.
She falls on her back amongst the wildflowers, pansies and roses and screams with agony at every harrowing contraction. They are still going when day breaks. They are nearing an end as she hears David’s pickup pulling up the drive, ready to take her to the market. Somehow he spots her immediately and is now rushing towards her. ‘Lucy!’ he screams. She had not seen her father run so fast in his life. As he gets to her side he takes her in his arms. She is fading. She feels she is near the end; sheer exhaustion, of body and soul. Tears now stream down David’s face.
The baby comes.
It was the land that raised her flowers, she merely tended to them. She had now delivered to the land a new life; it was up to the land to raise her child. She could only tend to him in spirit.
Panting lightly but trying not to let it show, she arrives at her refuge, and her senses are bombarded all at once. A myriad of colour greets her eye, an indescribable fragrance meanders towards her and gradually wafts up her nose, and the faint buzz of selfless, hardworking insects trickles into her ear. All of which warms her heart. Standing before her months of hard work and looking upon it, she is overwhelmed by an immense feeling of pride. This is her work, her accomplishment, the fruits of her labour. She retrieves her gardening tools and slowly, carefully kneels down before a section of wildflower.
Although she derives a great sense of enjoyment and satisfaction from her gardening, it is also a process that facilitates thought. For the next hour or so she will not look back at Petrus’s house, where she now lives, nor will she yield to any distractions; her flowers and her thoughts are all-consuming.
The move was more for convenience’s sake, and because of the insistence that she do so from everyone around her. Succumbing was not easy, but she saw it not as a defeat, but as a sensible compromise.
Spade in hand, she thinks on. Whilst she has declared to have had no affection for the country and what used to be her land many times before, her view is now somewhat, although not altogether, different. How can she claim to love herself yet not love the land, which she has come to see herself more and more closely intertwined with over the course of her pregnancy? This joy of nurturing her flowers from little seedlings into thriving, blooming, spectacular creations, and being allowed the opportunity to cultivate the land so; it is something to be thankful for. The land cannot help who inhabits it, nor control the actions of those that do. The land is not responsible for the evils which she has encountered and will never forget – it is reliable in its stability and consistency. She can depend on the land, it will always be there, stable. She takes comfort from this.
Her mind wanders and she finds herself thinking about the life inside her. As if on cue she feels the baby kick, and momentarily stops uprooting rebellious weeds. Still on her knees she straightens her back as best she can for comfort and to marvel. Raising a child was not a decision she had given much thought to in the past – given her nature she had all but ruled out the possibility – but the prospect of being a mother, she decides, sits well with her. Sure, she is apprehensive, but what mother isn’t? She knows within herself that she will not treat her child as a manifestation of that day. The child is not at fault, he or she will receive her boundless love.
A wave of nausea sweeps over her, no doubt the strong smells surrounding her the catalyst, the trigger. But she waits it out resolutely, fighting off wave after wave until the discomfort and unpleasantness subsides.
She stands up to fetch the secateurs and twine – the market is tomorrow and the flowers are in their prime. She has been to every Sunday market since moving in with Petrus. She and David go together, setting up her stall each week. Many of the passers-by whisper to each other as they pass her stall. Whether they know the truth or have made their own assumptions about her pregnancy she does not care. She still has her loyal customers, and it’s not about making money to her. The flowers she displays not in hope of benefiting, but to showcase what she and the land have accomplished together. She has also come to appreciate the particular allotted time with David. It is the only time they spend together, but she is glad they could reconcile to some extent. Though his irony and preoccupation with himself frustrates her to no end, she often finds herself delighting in the more friendly debates they share once a week. And he is there, making an effort; standing tall and proud by his child and his child’s decision. He may not have been a model parent, but he has not failed her.
She finishes off her gardening for the day; bundles of flowers lie bunched and tied in a box together with potted ones. Katy watches her, apparently uninterested as usual, as she struggles to pick up the box and waddles, protruding-stomach first, back toward Petrus’s house in the fading late afternoon night.
*
She has had relatively few issues with Pollux. Moving into Petrus’s home, living in such close proximity to Pollux was her main concern. He has not peeped on her in the bathroom again, as far as she knows, although sometimes she catches in his expression a hint of desire; a desire to exert power over her like he has before. Whilst she is not paralysed with fear, she sleeps with a hammer in the top drawer of her bedside table. Once burnt, forever scarred. But she does not let her scars dictate her actions. They are there, ugly and permanent, but they will not control her. She will not let them.
Her bed groans and creaks as she attempts to find a more comfortable sleeping position. She realises she is being kept awake by the moonlight seeping in through the opening in her not quite closed curtains. As she approaches the window a slight breeze cools her face and causes her nightgown to billow slightly. The sensation is wondrously refreshing. She is overcome by a mysterious happiness. A few moments later she returns to her bed content and in high spirits.
*
Her door creaks and she is immediately drawn to consciousness. Straining in the half-light to determine the identity of the figure, she sits up. ‘Hello? Is something the matter?’ But the figure does not respond. She can tell now that it is Pollux, her eyes having adjusted quickly. ‘Pollux? Is that you?’ she says, trying to make her voice sound casual. Again he does not respond. He has not moved from the doorway. Her heart rate quickens. Petrus and his wife are sleeping at the other end of the house. She could scream if he did anything, and the hammer was only an arm’s length away.
She feels a wetness soak her lap and dampen the bottom of her thighs. Oh no, not now, she begs. ‘Pollux, go get Petrus. Please hurry, I need to get to the hospital as my water has just broken.’
He takes a step inside the room. It is too dark to see his face.
‘Pollux, go quickly!’ she pleaded, starting to swing her legs over the side of the bed.
She turns away from him in order to lift herself up off the bed, but suddenly he is upon her, pushing her back down. She tries to scream but he has his hand around her throat, choking her. He is naked but for his underwear, which he disposes of almost as quickly as he hikes up her nightdress. She writhes beneath him but he is too strong. He forces himself into her. She is utterly petrified, and running out of air. She digs her nails into the hand that is choking her but he just squeezes harder. Her first contraction rocks her, but at least it is a natural kind of pain. It stirs her into action. Pollux continues to clumsily but forcefully thrust in and out of her, a sickening expression on his face. She reaches desperately for the bedside table now, tears escaping her eyes. She grasps for the handle of the hammer, aware that she was becoming weaker with each horrid second.
It strikes Pollux on the temple. Instantly he becomes limp and collapses on top of her. A sense of urgency takes over her and overrides the pure shock of what has just happened. She must go to her flowers.
She pushes Pollux off of her and stumbles to her feet. She is ravaged by another contraction and needs to steady herself against the wall. As soon as it is through she begins the journey she has made so many times over the past few months. Except this time she is wearing only her soiled white nightgown. Countless times she is brought to her knees on the way to her refuge, so often so that they begin to bleed freely as graze builds upon graze.
But she makes it to her flowers.
She falls on her back amongst the wildflowers, pansies and roses and screams with agony at every harrowing contraction. They are still going when day breaks. They are nearing an end as she hears David’s pickup pulling up the drive, ready to take her to the market. Somehow he spots her immediately and is now rushing towards her. ‘Lucy!’ he screams. She had not seen her father run so fast in his life. As he gets to her side he takes her in his arms. She is fading. She feels she is near the end; sheer exhaustion, of body and soul. Tears now stream down David’s face.
The baby comes.
It was the land that raised her flowers, she merely tended to them. She had now delivered to the land a new life; it was up to the land to raise her child. She could only tend to him in spirit.
4/03/2007
Return of the Jedale.
I am making a triumphant and dramatic return to the wondrous virtual land that is blogging! Celebrate...
...
...
...
Now! :)
Recently-ish I've been lazy and completely overrun with assignments that I conveniently left until the last minute. You will receive evidence of such an assignment in a post I will make later tonight - I'm planning to post the specified short story (the continuation of the book 'Disgrace' by JM Coetzee focalised through the main character's daughter) which I had to write (including a critical appendix, which I won't post because it just describes my narratives aims and links to the text and isn't all that interesting) for ALL101 Literary Studies. I promise I don't go so crazy with the brackets and side comments in my story. I could also post my ALW117 Writing for Professional Practice essay on communication and language, however it is too long and not really blog-worthy (it's about the social revolution that is being caused by mobile phones and the ramifications for communication processes and the English language). Brackets again, I'm sorry!
I've been very entertained by the recent flow of comments on my blog...
At 4:52 PM, jesicka said...
.....
u think too much
haha
luv jess
bc the other week i had a crazy dream about a tiger mauling me to death. what the hell does that mean?
since last post.....
DALE GET UR ACT TOGETHER WAT IS THIS?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!
the daley news isnt very daley
or daily
tut tut
It's too bad your parents didn't name you "Month". :P
I want to hear a story about a pregnant white South African lesbian living in rural South Africa where there are no gyms.
hmmmmmmmmm or maybe dales life is just so boring that he has nothing 2 tell us?
(im speaking to other commenters as it seems dale never uses this thing!)
This story is called: 'A Second Chance' ....
Paul's latest one he just made then. You sure are fond of displaying my work (that story in particular) at every opportunity you get, Paul! Think that's the second time you've posted it on my blog. And you're getting your wish about hearing the voice of the South African woman who I was for the majority of yesterday and the day before. Lucky you!
Jess - I'm still alive. *Checks pulse* Yep, still living! I'll try not to make you endure the hardship of going for an extended period of time without reading about me or my incredibly and spectacularly interesting and amazing life.
Lucas - You were not part of some experiment (or were you? :P). And I don't believe my parents contemplated calling me month... However I do know that I was almost a "Niall", which would have made coming up with a catching blog title near impossible (besides possibly playing with the concept of rivers).
Sharyn-ann - Lol. :)
Thanks for being patient (most of you!).
Prepare yourself for stuff.
Dale.
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