Writing lesson #28 by Ray Bradbury

Writing lesson #27 by Rainer Maria Rilke

Writing Lesson #26 by Stephen King

The Parcel is in the Mail

 I've been eagerly awaiting the arrival of a parcel posted a while ago, in Cradock in the Eastern Cape.
 It's a book, written by an old friend and colleague, in which I get a small mention. By all accounts, Chris Marais', The Journeyman, is a rollicking, good read and I'm looking forward to settling in with a glass of good, red, wine and my lawyer on speed-dial, when I get it...if I get it.
 That's the problem - the once mighty South African Post Office.
 The harsh reality is, by the time you read this, with the way things are going, the SA Post Office may no longer exist and I fear, my copy of The Journeyman will disappear along with it.
 Anyone with even half a brain - that effectively rules out the government, the ruling party, the SABC leadership, heads of parastatals, the Honorable Ambassador to Japan, the Chief Engineer of PRASA, the CEO of PRASA, the boss of South African Airways, the Nkandla architect, 95% of mayors and municipal managers, ANC voters...ah, fuck it! I don't have enough space or time for a comprehensive list - knows the post office is in dire straits.
 In the first three months of this year, the organisation (and I use that word in its loosest possible sense) suffered a loss of R285 million (about US$25 million) and is bleeding cash to the tune of about R100 million per month.

Standstill

 According to press reports, mail deliveries have come to a standstill, because there is no longer money to buy fuel for the delivery trucks. Kinda makes a mockery of their slogan: We deliver, whatever it takes.
 But back to my tale of woe.
 When Julie, Chris' lovely wife posted the parcel in Cradock, she registered it and sent me a tracking number, as well as a call centre phone number, so I could follow the progress of The Journeyman.
 "They say it'll take five working days," she said.
 Five working days came and went and nothing. I went to the internet and tried to log onto the SA Post Office site but their tracking facility wasn't working. Eventually I found a third party website that tracks packages handed in at the post office and courier services in South Africa.
 The parcel arrived in Port Elizabeth, from Cradock the day after it was posted and there it disappeared into fuck-knows-where, under the entry In transit.
 Like a kid waiting for Christmas, I checked my postbox each day but, like promises of more frequent sex if I help around the house,...nothing.
 "I sorry, I can't help you," said the bored-looking lady at the postal agency counter. "The tracking service is offline."
 "When will it be back?" I asked, knowing I was clutching at straws.
 She shrugged.
 "So what do I do?"
 "Check back later or call the Helpline number."
 She started to give it to me but I told her I already had it.
 Back home I once again turned to the internet.
 The Post Office website tracking facility still wasn't working but at least I got to read about a new stamp issued to commemorate the 60th anniversary of the Freedom Charter and a four month-old press release about Government's plans to put the post office on a turnaround course. Well that's alright then.
 The third-party tracking site was also a bust. Entry of the tracking number returned the answer: SA Post Office not responding. Duh!
 Time to talk to a real human being (and once again, I use that term in its loosest possible sense. Some may recall the true story of the post office official who turned away a customer because a parcel was bigger than the scale. She said she was therefore unable to weigh the bits that extend beyond the edges of the device's base plate. She might be onto something. If I stand on my bathroom scale and extend my arms sideways, will my weight be reduced by the mass of my extended limbs? I must try it.

Real Human Being

 But I digress...getting to talk to a real human being. After 10 minutes on my mobile phone and listening to "your call is important to us, please hold on" followed by ten seconds of the same crappy elevator tune, followed by "your call is important to us, please hold on," followed by ten seconds of the same crappy elevator tune, followed by... well you get the picture.

Oh wait...here is a message from the post office:

Our runner has been delayed at the flooded Fish River where it was ascertained, his cleft stick mail-portage device, failed to meet the required minimum length. Also because of our policy of employing formerly disadvantaged community members, who are representative of the demographics of our democracy, said employee has a gimpy leg and is also unable to swim. Therefore, in terms of Section 48.2 of the Post Office Workers Employment regulations, he is required to be replaced by a lesbian, African, woman or man, with suitable qualifications. Unfortunately, at this point, we have no suitable candidates, as all my relatives already have been allocated positions. This situation will be rectified as soon as:
 (a) We do, or,
 (b) When we get a President with more than two brain cells or,
 (c) When the Post Office is run by someone who has the vaguest fucking clue of what day it is and how to tie his/her/its shoelaces - whichever comes first.
 The smart money in the office pool is on "a".
 Your business is important to us...please hold on.
 Yours faithfully
 Simian "Stamps" Nkandla
 

 I didn't really get that message from the post office. I just put it in so international readers aren't left with a completely negative impression.

Writing lesson #25 by George Orwell

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Renewing my passport

 At the beginning of the year I realized my passport had expired and a trip to the local Home Affairs Department was imminent.
 Based on previous experiences of inefficiency and unpleasantness, it was not a prospect I relished.
 Memories of standing in long lines for an hour or more, only to have the window get shut in my face just as it was my turn to be served, or being told I was in the wrong queue and "should be in that line over there" that hadn't moved for the last two days, are still vivid.
 For days I hesitated, trying to find a way around it. Perhaps I should use a service that does the queuing for me, I thought.
 "Don't be silly," said my wife, always the voice of reason. "We're not millionaires and it's not as though you have much else to do any way."
 I couldn't argue on either of those points.
 "In any case, I've heard things are a lot better and while you're there, get renewal forms me and also for Kevin (my youngest son.)"
 And so it was that I found myself, early on a Monday morning, at the beginning of the year, at the offices of the Department of Home Affairs in Randfontein. The doors had just opened but the queues were already significant.

Unifying force

 I joined the line waiting to be served by a man behind the "Enquiries" counter.
 It is claimed sport will turn out to be this country's greatest ever unifying force. While I agree the big games and national and provincial rivalry put us in party mood and, for a while, we forgot our differences and band behind the national team, it cannot compete with the unifying experience of visiting a government department.
 Now that really builds true unity. People from all levels of society, who normally would not give each other the time of day, become bound by shared suffering induced by inept officials and a system designed to screw you around.
 Linked in our common misery, we individuals rapidly become a common mind, swapping stories of previous experiences at the hands of not-so-civil servants.
 It becomes a competition to see who has been screwed-over worst.
 A coloured woman with a toddler hanging on her skirts and peering at me from between her legs, struck up conversation.
 "How many times have you had to come back?" she asked.
 "It's my first, I just have to get some forms for a passport," I replied.
 "This is my fourth. They've been fucking me and my husband around every time. First it's this and then it's that. Then they want something else. My husband can't come any more, he's got to work. You know how hard jobs are to find these days..."
 By the time my position in the line had advanced two yards I knew pretty all there was to know about her family... how her husband enjoys a drink or six on the weekend, that she'd voted ANC but probably wouldn't do so again in the next elections and a lot more.
 If we'd just thought of it, we probably would have exchanged telephone numbers and even ended up going on family outings together. (The last part is not true, I just said that to impress foreign readers.)
 She, in turn, knew about my kids, how difficult it was for them to find work and my solutions for South Africa's problems and world hunger.
 When it was my turn to be served at the "Enquiries" counter, I felt all warm and cuddly -- new South African!
 "I need three sets of passport application forms, please," I said to the guy manning the counter.

Joking

"You'll need to fill them in here," he said. "We no longer allow people to take them out of the building."
 I was taken aback. Surely he was joking.
 "But I need to get photographs done and I'm sure there are other details that must be filled in," I responded.
 He was not joking.
 "There's a man outside who'll take the pictures and you only need complete a few details, the rest we'll get from the computer system."
 "But what about my wife and son?" I asked.
 He stared at me with a look usually reserved for people who've suffered head-traumas. It was just so damn obvious and I couldn't see it.
 "They'll have to come in," he sighed.
 "But they work and can't take time off."
 "We've thought of that too," he replied, "that's why we're open on Saturday mornings."
 Behind me the people in the line were growing restless.
 But I was not easily swayed.
 "This is ridiculous," I huffed. "Tell me why I can't take the forms home, fill them in and bring them back."
 "Because people don't bring them back," he replied. "And, because of that, I get given a set number of forms in the morning and a reconciliation is done in the afternoon."
 "That is simply nonsense," I said, in the most indignant tone I could muster. "I'm not like that. I will fill them in and be back."
 I scooped up the forms and marched defiantly out of the building, expecting any moment to be beaten senseless by the bemused security guards but nothing happened.
 Earlier this week, while watching television, my wife suddenly turned to me.
 "Did you ever get those passport forms?" she asked.
 I thought for a moment.
 "I did," I replied. "They're sitting on my desk, I just haven't got round to giving them to you yet."
"We really should fill them in," she said, and turned her attention back to the television.

Writing lesson #24 by Ernest Hemingway

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Writing lesson #23 by John Green

Micro Fiction: Vasectomy

Click on the picture for a larger image.

Writing lesson #22 - Stephen King

Writing lesson #21 - William H. Gass

How to make your stories memorable

 As English author, Philip Pullman, wrote: “After nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.”
 From the moment humans made sense of their primitive grunts, they told stories, to entertain, educate and communicate.
 Our lives are filled with stories, which is why people in the US spend an average of 444 minutes (7.4 hours) every day, looking at screens. A study by Mary Meeker, Morgan Stanley internet analyst and current partner at Kleiner Perkins Caufield Byers, broke that number down to: 147 minutes spent watching TV, 103 minutes in front of a computer, 151 minutes on a smartphones and 43 minutes with a tablet.
 And the US only places sixth on the screen-time list! In Indonesia, people spend nine hours a day on their computers, TVs, laptops and smartphones.
 While some of that time involves non-story activities, working on spreadsheets or databases etc., the fact remains, the world wants good stories.

Good news and Bad news

 That is the good news.
 The bad news is, there are more stories out there now than ever before and the competition for eyeballs, as well as the din of the clutter is overwhelming.
 Today it is easier than ever to fling your story to the world. Want to publish a book? No problem, you can do so for free in digital format with Amazon and Smashwords. Old-style paper publishing? Again free if you use Create Space and Lulu - they'll print and deliver directly to your readers and pay you a cut.
 It is an exciting time to be a writer. It is also a difficult time. The democratization of publishing has opened the doors to all and, as a result, there is an enormous amount of literary detritus on offer that previously was filtered by traditional publishing houses and never saw the light of day.
 Now, readers 'pays their money and takes their chances' and filtering comes in the form of reader-reviews. Negative reviews can destroy months of hard work and stories that aren't memorable, will get negative reviews!
 So how can you make your stories memorable?
 According to Udemy, the leading marketplace for online education, there are 13 Great Storytelling Techniques To Make Your Stories Memorable:

1. Show it
Great and influential stories do not “tell”, they “show”. 

2. Length mattersStories can be really short or as long as a book but your long story ceases to be a story the moment it becomes boring.

3. Likable characterCharacters can be and should be flawed because this is what makes them real.  Your character also needs to be likeable because you want your audience to be pulling for them to succeed. 

4. There should be a plotA plot serves as the guiding force in your story.  It helps ensure there is a beginning, middle, and end, and all of the fun stuff in between.

5. Foreshadowing
Nothing is more exciting to a listener or reader than realizing that the storyteller or author is revealing clues throughout the story.

6. Keep the dialogue real
 A good way to check and see if your dialogue sounds good is to read it aloud. 

7. Conflict
Will the main character succeed?  How will the conflict be resolved?  This is the reason your audience will stay engaged.

8. Use a model
There are many common narratives most stories follow.  These include the hero’s journey, the coming of age tale, and an anecdote.  Try taking a common narrative and applying it to your own story.

9. Add a personal touch
If you are creating a story to entertain, draw on your own life experiences to add to the story as this will make your story feel more authentic.

10. Point of View
If you find your story lacking, try changing your point of view.  Third person point of views tend to be the most common.  Try telling your story from a first person point of view. 

11. Start with a bang!
Get your audience involved right away by starting your story with a bang.

12. Know what you are trying to convey
What is the purpose of this story?  Is it to entertain?  To relay a message?  To teach a lesson?

13. The delivery
The final delivery method matters.  You might have to change your story up a bit to ensure it is being told in the most beneficial manner.

Writing lesson #20 - Margaret Atwood

Writing lesson # 19 - Isaac Asimov

Is flatulence ruining your love life?

 Throughout history there have been some discoveries and inventions that have truly changed our lives.
 Fire, the wheel, the printing press, the steam engine, the telephone and internet spring to mind.
 But now there is something even more profound and earth shattering.
 It has come about because there is a problem in the marriage bed that no-one wants to talk about. It is a problem that is sometimes silent but almost always, deadly. But fear not, the solution has arrived.
 No longer need you tremble in your jammies, worried you may cause a stink. This is a truly mind-boggling invention that uses cutting-edge military technology to promise to restore marriages and at the same time fire up stagnant, rotten, sex-lives.
 And, judging by the fact that over two million people have viewed the advert on You Tube, there can be no doubt, there is a need for the Better Marriage Blanket.

 
 Yes ladies and gentlemen, for less than $40, excluding postage, you will no longer have to answer "yes" to the age-old question: "Is flatulence ruining your love-life?"
 I don't know about you, but it's a topic that comes up regularly at our dinner parties and, no doubt, you too have likely spent many hours discussing the problem with family, friends and work colleagues.
 But now, with the arrival of the Better Marriage Blanket, the acrid, foetid smell of your bed-partner's farts will no longer leave you gasping for air, like a landed mackerel, while you desperately flap the sheets and struggle to open the window.
 According to the manufacturer, "flatulence molecules pass through a cotton layer and get absorbed by the carbon layer, leaving you to experience fresh air and added under-blanket warmth!" Actually I added the bit about the warmth - it's a selling feature they probably didn't think of.

Chemical weapons

 Available in different sizes, the Better Marriage Blanket is said to contain the same type of fabric used by the military to protect against chemical weapons.
 It's also touted as a "great wedding or anniversary gift too."
 I wish it had been around when my wife and I tied the knot more than years ago. That way we'd probably still be sleeping in same the room - and maybe even in the same bed.
 She's a strange girl, my dear wife. She's not amused by the same things I am. For example, I find it difficult to get her to crack even the smallest of a smiles when, lying together, I trap her head under the blankets and fart.
 What can I say, I find farts - particularly mine - funny. I laugh so much I can hardly breathe, yet strangely she fails to see the comedy.
 That, and my snoring, has seen me moved to a room down the passage and now I am forced to keep the clouds of gas I emit from my bottom trapped firmly beneath the blankets until she comes into my room in the morning with a cup of coffee.
 Then, with a flourish, I'll fling back the bed-clothes and hope for the best. Once I got lucky. She dropped the cup in the middle of a choking fit but, in truth, it's just not the same. It's a poor substitute for the genuine "Dutch Oven" or "Covered Wagon."

Drawback

 That, I think is one of the drawbacks of the Better Marriage Blanket. It will do away with those intimate, fun-filled moments that couples, enjoy in bed and have so much fun remembering. It's also going to make Two-and-a-half-Men a lot less funny.
 I am also afraid, if they ever start making baby diapers from the new wunder-fabric, it's going to mean the end of that endearing Mommy ritual where - usually in a restaurant - some mum sticks her nose against her little-one's butt, takes a lung-filled sniff and loudly announces "someone's made a stinky poopie!". But at least the old finger up the diaper's leg-hole is likely to remain.
 Before anyone gets the wrong impression, let me place on record that I am not solely responsible for producing noxious odours in my home.
 My dear wife must also bear some responsibility. Consequently, a nice pair of sweat pants in activated-carbon fabric in her size would indeed be welcome.
 When it comes to rear emissions I tend to be noisy - and, if I may be so bold as to say, quite musical.
 My wife, on the other, hand is covert and sneaky. The first indication that something is horribly amiss comes from the dogs.
 When they are suddenly startled from their slumbers on the TV-room carpet and slink away, you know what's coming.
 You see, my dear wife, kind and sweet as she may be, is by no means above blaming the dogs for her odoriferous indiscretions. With noses (thankfully) hundreds of times more sensitive than mine, they know an undeserved scolding is only seconds away, so they get the hell outta Dodge.
 "Blah, blah, blah," my wife has just said, while reading over my shoulder.
 "No one will believe you because everyone knows women don't fart."
 "Yes, Dear," I replied meekly.
 I didn't have the guts to show her the comment from someone called PyroRob69 who recently wrote about the Better Marriage Blanket on a chat forum. I think he summed it up quite nicely when he said:
 "Women don't fart because they can't keep their mouths shut long enough to build up any back pressure."

P.S. Yes, the Better Marriage Blanket is a real product!

Writing lesson #18 - Kurt Vonnegut

Writing lesson #17 - Stephen King

Writing lesson #16 - Ray Bradbury

Writing lesson # 15 - Anton Chekhov

Writing Lesson #15 

“Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.”
― Anton Chekhov

Writing lesson # 14 - William Faulkner

 Writing lesson # 14

“Read, read, read. Read everything -- trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master. Read! You'll absorb it.
Then write. If it's good, you'll find out. If it's not, throw it out of the window.”
― William Faulkner

Writing lesson #13 - Henry David Thoreau

Writing lesson # 12

Writing lesson # 11 - Philip Pullman

Changing his Wife

Changing His Wife

Changing His Wife
Copyright © 2013 by Hilton Hamann

Thank you for taking the time to read this free short story.

Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

Coffee Break Tales are complete short stories designed to be read whenever you are able to grab a short break, like taking time off for a cup of coffee or a cigarette. They are ideal for mobile phones and tablets.

***

 He could not stand her bitching any more!
 It never stopped. From the moment she woke and pulled on her sour face, to the time she left for work, she had something to complain about. Mostly about him.
 The only respite for John Carlyle was when she was at work and he could sit at his desk picking at his computer keyboard, trying to build a fiction-writing career.
 When John first met his wife, Gay, she was just that. Not in a modern, lesbian way but rather the way the "gay" was used when his grandparents were young and the word meant "happy" and "cheerful." Now she was neither.
 Gay felt she carried the weight of her world on her shoulders and made sure everyone knew that.
 Her husband knew he shared some blame for the slow erosion of their once-happy relationship - he was not easy to live with but, where he withdrew and became taciturn, she bitched. And he couldn't stand it!
 The decline started years earlier when John's company retrenched him.
 Normally he could have expected to quickly find another job but that was the world had entered the worst recession since the Great Depression of the 1930s and it was the perfect, catastrophic, financial storm for John.
 His creditors wasted no time. Quickly they descended upon him, stripping his carcass of its assets. When done, he no longer owned a house or car and everything  saved for retirement was gone. he knew, renting even a tiny house in the city was no longer something they could afford and there was no option but to move to the country, where rental prices were still affordable and where they could live according to their means.
 After much searching, John signed a rental agreement on a run-down, small holding on the outskirts of a town that'd seen better times. The house was old and the roof leaked. The fields were unharrowed and overgrown but at least they could afford the monthly payments, it had promise and there was an option to one day buy it.
 For John, it was an opportunity to start over, unemcumbered by previous financial baggage. They could live like young, newly-weds once again. Restart their lives on a blank canvas, waiting to be painted just the way they wanted. It could be a whole new life they could design for themselves, and the prospect and possibilities excited him. He felt free for the first time in many years.
 He planned to plant crops, grow chickens and maybe keep a few cows. He believed it was an opportunity to become self-reliant and self-sufficient and was convinced, if he could make the land feed them, then the loss of his retirement savings was irrelevant.
 In addition, he was going to strive to create a career as a fiction writer.
 But Gay wasn't convinced. She hated leaving the city and worried constantly about what would happen when they were old. How would they feed themselves and pay their medical expenses? And her husband's fantasy of writing books and selling them on the Internet...well that was exactly what it was...a fantasy! How foolish he looked when he showed her his first quarterly sales report. $12.46 doesn't make you a professional writer!
 He was always like that - a dreamer without a practical bone in his body. Plans about the future and dreams were one thing but Gay wanted results... now! And so she hectored him whenever he presented an idea to her.
 "Yes, but...how will you market it? How are people going to get to know about it? How long before it makes any money?"
 She fired questions like a machine-gunner defending an outpost in enemy territory.
 John learned long ago there was no point in debating anything with Gay. Once her mind was set, nothing would change it.
 Her role, she believed, was to mold her husband and motivate him and she honestly believed, if she bitched enough, he would cave in and that would do it.
 But John dug in his heels this time. He'd abandoned his dreams too often before and, on more occasions than he cared to admit, her carping made him change direction. But not again! With nothing left to lose, he was no longer afraid and he focused on his wonderful new adventure and tried to shut out her complaining.
 Three months after moving to the country, Gay found a job in town and was appointed as the Mayor's personal assistant. The pay wasn't much but Gay got to rub shoulders with the mayor, the town's elders and prominent business people and it made her feel important.
 She immersed herself in her work and it soon consumed her and became the most important aspect of her life. Every day she seemed to push John deeper into the background.
 She worked on weekends, attended meetings at night and brought work home that she justified by telling John, "someone around has to do real work and bring in the money!"
 She absolutely loved her new-found status and she was busy - of that there could be no doubt - but she wore her busy-ness like a badge of honor. When asked how she was, her standard reply was, "busy!" It became her email signature and her identity.
 And she firmly felt, her time was more important than that of her slack-assed, dreamer husband. Errands or chores were, as a consequence, delegated to him.
 "You're at home every day," she indignantly exclaimed when one day he complained he had writing to do. "I'm the one around here who has to work!"
 And the bitching and nagging grew worse.
 Unhappiness and discontent oozed from her pores and even when she was happy, she was unhappy.
 She scolded him when he snored, scowled when he coughed, told him what he should eat and how much of it and hounded him to get more exercise.
 "I don't want to have to look after you and clean up your shit when you have a heart-attack and are stuck in a wheelchair," she said.

***

 One Saturday afternoon John decided to visit a nearby neighbor and they sat on the back verandah drinking beer.
 "Don't you sometimes wish you could change your wife?" Phil suddenly asked out of the blue.
 John smiled wryly. "I think she's beyond changing. She's too set in her ways."
 He took a sip of beer.
 "But if you mean changing her for someone young and nice, then I guess, yes I do."
 Phil lived alone. A few years ago his wife suddenly left him one night. Some say she was sick of rural life and fled to the city but, ever since, people noticed Phil was calmer and happier.
 "No, I mean change her into something useful like... for example ... a horse."
 John laughed.
 "Hell, yes! A horse would be good. It could pull that old plow on my property and get some crops planted."
 Of late, John had been thinking about farming, using the old, primitive methods of his forefathers. Maybe such a project could be turned into a book or television series, he thought.
 "Yes," he nodded, "a horse would definitely be useful... if only."
 "If you're sure, I may be able to help you," said Phil.
 John laughed. He figured Phil was a little drunk.
 "I'm serious," said Phil and John saw he was. "My wife didn't abandon me. I changed her into a dairy cow and she's since produced three fine calves. I can take you to her and show you."
 John was taken aback. Phil, was always so level-headed and sensible, yet, here he was, spouting insane nonsense. He wasn't sure how to respond.
 "Yeah, sure," he said weakly. "You're shittin' me."
 "No," said Phil, his voice even, "I'm not. I've never told anyone this before but I can see you need help. One of my great, great, great, grandmothers was burned at the stake for being a witch - which indeed she was. She compiled a book of spells that's been handed down through the generations. I now have it and I'll pass it on before I die.
 "There's been a family witch or wizard - I like to think of myself as a male witch - for almost five hundred years."
 John concluded his friend must have spent too much time in the hot sun and his crazy talk was the result of a mild case of sun-stroke. He decided to play it cool, humor Phil and get out of there as quickly as possible.
 "You don't believe me?" Phil cocked an eyebrow then fixed a piercing stare on John.
 "No!... No! Of course I do. It's just you took me by surprise, that's all." He was concerned his voice might sound unconvincing. "So you really could turn Gay into a horse?"
 "Yes, if that's what you want."
 "How would you do it?"
 "I can't reveal the specifics but it involves blending and burning animal skins, furs and ancient potions - and there are secret chants."
 "Okay..."
 "Are you sure you want me to do this? Once she's changed into a horse there is no reversing the process."
 John was convinced his friend was slightly mad. He felt a prickle of unease scratch at the back of his neck. The last thing he wanted to risk was upsetting Phil.
 "Er... yes. Go ahead. Change my wife into a horse."
 "Good, if that's your final decision, I'll need a photograph of her. Do you have one?"
 "I have a picture of both of us. It was taken fairly recently, it's in my wallet."
 John retrieved the image and handed it to Phil, who examined it closely.
 "I need to tear you out of it, don't want you ending up as a horse as well." He snorted and smiled at the thought.
 "Okay..." said John. His voice hesitant and unsure.
 Phil ripped the photograph and handed the piece containing John's image to him.
 "Go home now. I'll do the rest."
 John nodded. At last he could flee from his nutty neighbor. He wondered if he should call a doctor on the way home, as there was no doubt, Phil needed help! But he decided against it.
 As he pulled Gay's car into the driveway he expected to see her working in the garden but she was not there.
 "She probably inside lying down," he thought.
 He parked the car, entered the kitchen and... walked into a horse standing in the passage!

***

 Initially John believed he'd miss Gay's human presence and worried about being lonely and alone but he soon realized he'd, in fact, been alone for years especially  when she was there. And tranquility trumped loneliness on any day.
 He converted a shed into a stable, made sure it was warm and changed the hay daily. In an ironic twist, it was he, who picked up her shit.
 "Funny isn't it," he said one day, as he shoveled a steaming horse-turd into a bucket. "This is what you always feared you'd have to do for me."
 Gay flared her nostrils and rolled back her top lip, baring a set of yellow equine teeth.
 He smacked her rump.
 John put Gay to work. Sometimes he rode her to Phil's farm and tethered her to a verandah railing so she could hear them talk about how peaceful their changed lives were. Often she stamped her front hooves or neighed, glaring at them and they laughed but mostly they just ignored her.
 And John hitched her to old the plow and started harrowing his fields. From early morning until late afternoon, she dragged the heavy impliment while he steered it. When she slowed down or seemed to protest he smacked her smartly across the rump with a driver's whip.
 "Come on!" he urged, "You always said you like being busy!"
 In the evenings when they were done, both were wet with sweat. He rubbed her down and made sure her feed-trough was filled with fresh oats and that her stall had clean hay. And while he groomed her, Gay saw how all the hard work they did together had seen him lose weight and hone his body. He looked 20 years younger.
 When the first crop of vegetables was almost ready for harvesting, John was visited by a reporter from Mother Earth Magazine. She'd heard about his traditional farming efforts and planned an article about it for their summer edition.
 She was a pretty young thing in her mid twenties. She wore khaki shorts and a white T-shirt that displayed her curves. Her strawberry-blonde hair was cropped short and somewhat scruffy, in a sexy sort of way.
 John showed her around the small-holding and she took notes and photographs. Then they went to the stables so she could meet and photograph Gay. The horse stamped and snorted and, when the reporter attempted to stroke her nose, she tried to bite her and reared up.
 "Feisty, isn't she!" exclaimed the journalist, as she retreated behind a fence constructed of wooden poles.
 "She doesn't like other women, especially pretty young women."
 The reporter giggled. It was sweet and coquettish and reminded him of Gay, many years ago. She brushed a fleck of hay that was stuck to the side of John's face. Her finger-tips were cool.
 "Let's go and have some tea," said John, steering her towards the house, with his hand on the small of her back.
 "Sounds good," she said and slipped her arm around his waist, "and while we're there I'd love to read some of your fiction."
 As they headed for the house the horse pawed the ground and its eyes blazed red.

The End

If you enjoyed this story and would like a copy for your Kindle, ebook-reader or mobile phone, or would like to give it to someone as a gift, you can download it securely online for a mere US$99c here.

Writing Lesson #10 - Robert Frost

Black Heart - the story of a racist

 

Black Heart

A complete, free, Coffee Break Tale

by

Hilton Hamann

Coffee Break Tales are complete, free, online, short stories designed to be read whenever you are able to grab a short break, like taking time off for a cup of coffee or a cigarette. They are ideal for mobile phones and tablets.

**

 "I hate blacks," said Arrie Potgieter, his voice laced with venom. "Always have, always will!"

 He blew on the surface of the coffee in a chipped white mug, before taking a sip.

 He drank his coffee strong, black and with three and a half heaped spoons of sugar. The way he took it, provided a constant joke that his white, gold-miner colleagues told when they sat in the tea-room located almost a kilometre below ground.

 The jibe was old and they knew it and Arrie, their shiftboss, was sick of hearing it but that made it even more fun as they knew it got under his skin.

 Arrie likes his coffee the way he likes his women - strong, black and sweet!

 "What is it this time?" asked one of the miners sitting at the next table.

 Arrie stabbed a sausage-like finger at an article at the bottom of the front page of the newspaper spread out before him.

 "A bunch of kaffirs broke into a farm house in the Free State, shot the husband, tied up the wife and stole just about everything."

 His eyes flashed and his brow furrowed.

 "Savages!" he spat.

 He took a small sip of coffee, careful not to burn his lips.

 "1971 and they're still fucking savages every one of them!"

 "Surely you can't mean all blacks are bad?"

 The eyes of the rest of the underground crew turned to face the speaker. The owner of the voice was Taffy, a new team member. He was a bull-like Welshman and had been in South Africa less than a month.

 "There must be some good blacks."

 Arrie smiled. It was the sort of smile adults used when dealing with slow-witted children - or dumb blacks.

 "You'll learn," he said, his voice condescending. "There are no good blacks in this country. They're all the same. They just look human but aren't really, they're another species - a sub-species!"

 The rest of the all-white crew nodded in agreement. In general they agreed with Arrie's frequent racial proclamations, although none were as fervent in their beliefs.

 But then nobody was as intense - or extreme - as Arrie Potgieter, white supremacist and union shop-steward.

 He grew up in a poor Afrikaner family, one of seven children. His father, unskilled and barely literate, had somehow managed to eke out a living farming on a small-holding situated on the outskirts of Johannesburg. But his efforts and the many hardships he faced along the way eventually killed him.

 Often there was no food in the small, run-down house with its leaking roof patched with sheets of plastic and bits of recycled board. But the old man always had booze and whenever he drank he found a reason to use his belt on Arrie's mother and his siblings.

 Arrie was the old man's favourite and the youngster adored and idolized his father. He hung on the old man's every word and listened carefully when his father warned that the country's blacks had only one thing in mind - to steal the whites' jobs and drive them into the sea!

 "If we fail to keep our race pure and fail to resist the blacks at every turn, we are doomed," he told the young Arrie. "And anyone who lies in bed with a black, breaks a sacred command of Almighty God. Does His word not say wine and water do not mix?"

 Old Man Potgieter was a staunch follower of the Nationalist Party government and wholeheartedly supported  its policy of grand apartheid.

 He helped the party recruit and organise voters at election time and spent countless hours discussing and admiring the Nazi's racial policies.

 It pleased him when laws were passed putting in place a series of "scientific" tests that low-level government officials could use, to establish white, racial, purity.

 Government scientists and anthropologists debated and determined the maximum width of a pure white nose so it was then a simple matter for a government official to take a measurement using a pair of steel callipers. Anything wider than the listed standard was an indicator of non-purity.

 There were gum and finger nail tests. Darker gums meant the person concerned was coloured, as did small blue crescents at the rear of the finger nails.

 When a pencil was vertically inserted into a white person's hair, it fell through, something not deemed to be the case with a black or coloured person.

 Any of these tests could result in a person being reclassified as a black.

 And in South Africa, being black was often monstrous! Hundreds of oppressive racial laws made life hell for millions.

 If you were black or coloured you could not vote, live in a white suburb, send your children to a white school, go to a movie, ride in a white bus, sit on a whites-only park bench, swim on a white beach, be admitted to a white hospital, eat in a white restaurant or attend a white university.

 Being black meant having to have a pass to be allowed entry to certain parts of the city.

Meaningful jobs and occupations were closed to you, as they were reserved for whites.

 Arrie Potgieter liked the system and his labour union was determined to do everything in its power to maintain it.

 He glanced at his watch. Five minutes before they returned to their shift. Arrie didn't particularly like Taffy. He was a foreigner and spoke no Afrikaans and he was from the United Kingdom and Arrie hated Brits almost as much as he hated blacks. It was the British who'd oppressed the Afrikaners during the Boer War. It was the British who'd set up concentration camps for Afrikaner women and children and it was the British who stole the gold and diamonds of the Boer Republics. He wasn't born when any of that took place but he carried the grudges of his forefathers.

 He scowled at the Welshman.

 "Okay, tell me one good thing blacks have done...one major discovery or scientific achievement." He paused, his eyes boring into Taffy.

 "Didn't think so. But we, on the other hand... just a couple of years ago changed the course of medical history, when a South African doctor, Professor Christiaan Barnard, an Afrikaner, performed the world's first successful human heart transplant operation."

 Taffy was about to say something but decided against it. Potgieter could make life very uncomfortable in the underground stopes.

 Arrie figured Taffy knew his argument was weak and without foundation. No-one could dispute the facts he presented?

 "I'm just glad, God, in His infinite wisdom made me white," he said. "I'd sure hate to be one of them."

 He pointed to the stream of sweat-sodden, black, miners on their way back to the rock-face after having their tea-break.

 He closed his newspaper, folded it in half and set it on a shelf in the corner. Then he put his coffee mug in the sink along with those of the other miners.

 "Back to work," he said.

**

 It was around an hour later. The teams of black miners were hard at work in the stopes. The ground trembled beneath their feet, as dozens of rock-drills hammered into the ore face. The noise was overwhelming. White miners yelled orders at black underlings, screaming so they could be heard above the din. All the rock surfaces glistened and the air hung wet, like mountain fog, as water was constantly sprayed to control the dust.

 In this arena, Arrie prowled. It was his domain, his kingdom and he ruled supreme, with an unsheathed, iron fist.

 He made sure no one slacked for even a moment.

 They had targets to meet. Each shift had to drill a minimum number of holes in the rock face, into which explosive charges were inserted. The ore-face was then blown into smaller pieces and hauled to the surface for the gold to be extracted.

 If more holes were drilled than the daily target, each team-member got a bonus at the end of the month. It was a payment system that applied to everyone, all the way up to the Underground Manager - exceed targets and earn more!

 But to work there could be no weak links. If rock-drillers failed to meet production targets then blasters could not and so on up the chain all the way to the Underground Manager.

 These were hard men who relied on those bonuses and Arrie knew, if his team screwed up, the shit that rolled down to him would do so with the ferocity of an avalanche.

 No-one cared about excuses.

 So when Arrie was called to a section in 14B where a rock-driller had solidly jammed his drill into the rock-face, he was instantly in a foul mood.

 He knew sorting it out was at least a half hour-long job. The screw-up was almost certainly caused by the driller allowing the water reservoir used to keep the drill bit cool, to run dry. When that happened it overheated and seized.

 "Jesus! Fuck!" swore Arrie. But he tried to calm his rising temper. He had heart problems and took tablets every day.

 The time taken to free the drill bit would almost certainly see them miss their production target today. But the drill could also be damaged and repair costs, if negligence was proven, could be docked from the Shiftboss in charge.

 At the rock-face two black miners tugged at the stuck drill bit, in a gesture everyone knew was a waste of time. More holes would have to be drilled beside it if it was going to be freed.

 "Fuck! Half an hour at least!" Arrie thought.

 There was no way they would now reach their target.

 He checked the drill's water reservoir.

 Empty!

 This fucking coon was going to cost him money and, in addition, cause a shit-storm!

 A red mist swirled before him, becoming brighter and more intense all the time. In a deep recess of his mind a little voice called: "calm down" but the blood that roared in his ears and the pulse that pounded in his temples drowned it out.

 His breathing grew rapid and short. His fists balled without his realising it, his chest tightened and his eyes locked like lasers onto the guilty rock-driller.

 "You fucking, no good, useless piece of shit!" he screamed and attacked the man with all the fury and ferocity he could muster.

 A punch in the black miner's face broke his nose and floored him and then Arrie was on him, stamping and kicking in a blind rage.

 "Useless! Useless! Useless!" he bellowed, as he continued to kick his now-helpless victim with both feet.

 Potgieter would likely have killed him, had he not, at that moment, suffered a massive heart attack!

 As he flailed away he became vaguely aware his chest was tightening and his left arm suddenly felt strangely numb. He imagined he felt a cold sweat trickle down the back of his neck. Then nothing. Just the blackest of darkness until he woke up in the intensive care unit of a Johannesburg hospital, tubes down his throat and machines connected to him.

 When he slowly opened his eyes, his wife and son were there and it was obvious both had been crying. He tried to speak but couldn't because of the pipe down his gullet.

 "Arrie," said his wife and clasped a hand in both of hers. "We were so worried. We thought you were dead. Actually, you were. They say your heart stopped for almost two minutes before they got it started again!"

 She felt a tear slide down her cheek.

 "Why do you let those blacks get you so upset? You could've died because of that stupid Kaffir."

 He squeezed her hand weakly and nodded. He felt feeble and frail as a worn out dog. He struggled to keep his eyes open.

 "Sleep," she said and kissed him on his forehead. "Don't worry about a thing. Everything will be fine."

**

 London-trained, Doctor Alan Podinsky was one of the country's top heart specialists and knew the only way Arrie Potgieter would survive and recover was to have a heart transplant operation.

 "Without a new heart, I doubt you'll live to see the end of the year," he told Arrie one day, when he pulled up a chair and sat beside his patient's hospital bed.

 "The damage to your heart is huge and no surgery or medicine will ever repair it. Your only option is a heart transplant."

 Arrie lay propped up in bed in the High Care unit of the facility. The pipe shoved down his gullet was gone but his throat was so raw and inflamed he found it painful to talk. He remained attached to a variety of machines monitoring his vital organs and he wore an oxygen mask.

 He appeared twenty years older and the skin on his face was almost transparent.

Arrie knew about heart transplant operations. After all, the first successful procedure was done in South Africa and he'd followed the news, his chest puffed up with South African pride.

 He pulled the oxygen mask from his face so he could speak but even that left him gasping and feeble.

 "How successful are they... heart transplants?" he asked in a weak voice.

 "It's still a new field and there are risks," replied Podinsky, leaning forward so Arrie could better hear him.

 "I won't lie to you, there are dangers and, even if the surgery goes without a hitch, your body may reject your new heart - assuming they are able to find a suitable donor-heart in time."

 He paused, allowing Arrie to process what he'd just said.

 "I'd rate your chances of surviving the operation and going on to live a normal life at around 50 - 50 but it's the only shot you have."

 Arrie closed his eyes and sighed.

 "Will you do it here?" he whispered.

"No, in Cape Town by Professor Chris Barnard. He's the best in the world.
 Arrie smiled.

 "Okay," he said. "Let's do it."

**

 It was 24 days since Arrie Potgieter arrived at the hospital in Cape Town after being flown from Johannesburg by air ambulance.

 The surgical team was worried. If they could not find a suitable donor-heart soon, it would likely be too late.

 Every day Arrie's condition deteriorated.

 Then, late that night, they caught a break. A 23 year-old man, a resident in a black township, arrived at the hospital after he was shot in the head by a mugger. He was still alive but considered brain-dead, kept alive by machines. Two, separate, specialists confirmed to his grieving parents the youngster no chance of recovery.

 Professor Barnard quickly went to see the parents.

 "You can't save your son's life," he said gently, "but he can save many other lives. He can live on in others and give them life.

 "Right here, in this hospital, as we speak, there is a man who will die but, if we give him your son's heart he will live, healthy for many years. Please consider making this gift."

 Without hesitation the parents nodded.

 "It is what he would have wanted," his mother whispered, tears streaming down her face.

**

 Ten days after the transplant operation, Arrie was making remarkable progress. There'd been no signs of rejection and he felt better than he had in years. Professor Barnard was convinced he would make a full recovery and live a normal life.

 In the meantime he'd become something of a celebrity. Newspapers, both local and overseas, loved the story about a white supremacist and white-union boss, getting the heart of a black man.

 At first Arrie was apprehensive. He was sure he should feel different - black somehow. But he didn't. He felt the same, except healthier. And he had not developed any unusual urge to act differently. It was all very strange and confusing.

 A few members of Arrie's team took time off from work and travelled to Cape Town to visit him.

 "How long before you get back to work?" asked one.

 "I should be out of here in a week or two and then another six months recovery at home and I'll be good to go.

 "I hope you are keeping up with the production targets and not letting the Kaffirs slack off while I'm away."

 They smiled at him.

 "We're doing what we can but, let's be honest, no one's as tough as you."

 Arrie grinned.

 "Yeah, I've told this new heart there'll be no slacking off - it works for a white man now!"

 They all laughed so loudly that the duty nursing sister came to see what the ruckus was about.

 "You must calm things down or I'll have to ask you to leave," she said, her voice stern and clipped.

 "Sorry, M'am," said one of the miners, trying to suppress a giggle. "We'll behave ourselves."

 "You'd better," she said, peering over the rim of her spectacles.

 "Better keep it down guys," whispered Arrie, before snorting with laughter again. Hell it was good to see the guys and he couldn't wait to get back to his home and job. It was going to be wonderful when things were once again back to normal.

 The guys chatted for another half an hour before the duty sister once again left her station.

 "You must go now," she said. "Professor Barnard is doing his rounds shortly."

 They shook hands with Arrie.

 "We'll give your regards to the rest of the guys and tell them you'll soon be back to wield the whip."

 "Good bye," said Arrie. "See you soon."

 They turned and filed out of the High Care unit but, at the door, one of the miners stopped and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.

 He withdrew a white envelope and handed it to Arrie.

 "I almost forgot," he said. "The bosses asked me to give this to you."

 "What is it?" asked Arrie.

 "I don't know. Probably a letter wishing you a speed recovery, I would guess."

 And with that he left and raced after his colleagues who were already waiting at the elevator.

**

 Arrie awoke a little later. Professor Barnard had arrived a few moments after his visitors left and his examination, together with his workmates' visit had left Arrie worn out. He dozed off and slept for an hour.

 After drinking a little water, he remembered the letter.

 The envelope had the mining organisation's crest printed on the front and the return address at the back.

 He slipped his right index finger under the glued flap, tore open the envelope and began to read.

Dear Mr Potgieter

 It is with regret I must inform you, your employment has been terminated with immediate effect.

 We have been informed by Government, that, at an emergency meeting of the Cabinet, it was decided, because of your receipt of the heart of a black man, your racial classification is to be changed to "Black."

 The Cabinet felt it could reach no other decision, as the heart is the essential essence of any human being. Thus, if you have a black heart, you are, in effect, "black".

 Accordingly, to comply with the laws of the land, as well as the rules of your union, as a black man, we may no longer employ you in your current position. In addition, your occupation of the house, owned by the mine and located in a white area, is accordingly deemed unlawful.

 You are therefore regrettably instructed to vacate the property within 30 days of the above date.

 The Human Resources Department will be contacting you to assist in making the necessary arrangements.

Yours faithfully

Andrew Harvey - General Manager

The End

If you enjoyed this story and would like a copy for your Kindle, ebook-reader or mobile phone, or would like to give it to someone as a gift, you can download it securely online for a mere US$99c here.

Writing lesson #9

Writing lesson #8

Writing lesson #7

Writing lesson #6

Writing lesson #5

Micro fiction: News Report

Writing lesson #4

Micro Fiction: Thinking of her

Writing lesson #3

Micro Fiction: Band of Brothers

Writing lesson #2

Micro Fiction: Retribution

 Slightly longer than usual but a complete story on a single page. I hope you enjoy it!

Writing lesson #1