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.

Changing his Wife

Changing His Wife

Changing His Wife
Copyright © 2013 by Hilton Hamann

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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

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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

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Micro fiction: Brush Off

Micro Fiction Fashion - Literature you can wear! Available as a T-shirt, crop-top, hoodie or crewneck, high-quality garment. 

Micro fiction: Airports and Hearts

Stories from the Heartland

 And a new cover and time-limited special price. $2.99 at Smashwords

Download a free sample.

Micro fiction and the Steam Tomato

 It's called many things: 'short, short fiction', 'micro fiction', 'flash fiction', 'nano fiction' and other names.
 In essence, it is the writing of a complete short story in a tiny number of words. This can be anything from 1 000 words to 100 or less, depending on the definition chosen by the writer.
 Arguably, the most famous piece of micro fiction is Ernest Hemingway's "Baby Shoes" complete "novel" in just six words: For sale: Baby shoes, never worn.
 I wrote about this story in this blog post.
 My interest in the technique was piqued by a story I came across about Franki Elliot, a writer in Chicago and Los Angeles who sets up her typewriter on the street and writes short stories on demand for passersby.
 They give her a topic and she hacks out a story on the spot, for which they pay what they want. She's become something of a media celebrity and I thought the concept was pretty cool.
 I wondered if I was capable of doing something like that, if I could come up with something creative, when put on the spot. Using a manual typewriter also means there was no opportunity to correct or revise.
 So I set up the "Steam Tomato" and got my wife and son to call out a couple of random topics.
 I've scanned and posted two short stories. (I will post more in future.) The topic is at the top of the sheet of paper.
 Did I succeed? That's for the reader to judge. I like them and it was a lot of fun - and the ultimate nerd, party game.

 Here is an excerpt from my short story, "An Unlikely Teacher." It's a story that will strike a chord with many and is available on Amazon (US) (UK) (Australia)

An Unlikely Teacher

Lessons in Freedom

by

Hilton Hamann

PUBLISHED BY

HILTON HAMANN

An Unlikely Teacher
©Hilton Hamann (2014)



 I first met Jonathon at a charity function held in a fancy, five star hotel in Johannesburg's northern suburbs. It was part of the world I effortlessly inhabited at the time. As the head-writer at the country's most exclusive and expensive, corporate public relations firm, I moved in high circles.
 Jonathon wore a tux but looked uncomfortable and out of place. A doctor with Doctors Without Borders, he was much more at home in his rural clinic but the organisation relied on corporate donations and there were times he had no option but to reluctantly schmooze at fund-raising events.
 He looked interesting so I made a point of buying him a drink and we got chatting. Jonathon operated a small clinic in deep rural Kwa Zulu - Natal that was the only source of medical assistance to a few thousand people who lived in villages in the area.
 He said he loved his work, but to be honest, I quickly grew bored with the conversation. He was an educated man, a doctor, but knew nothing of the world. There was no Internet where he lived, he knew little of current affairs and when it came to financial topics and investments, he was clueless.
 When I finished my glass of 12 year-old scotch, I graciously excused myself and headed off to chat with the CEO of a large bank. I never thought I'd see Jonathon again. Our world's were separate and different. Mine sophisticated and civilised, his backwards and primitive.
 And our paths most likely would not have crossed again, had I not been retrenched six months later. In a single moment, on a Tuesday morning, I discovered my carefully constructed, moderately well-to-do existence was, in fact a house of cards. Like so many of my age and generation, I believed the good times, the easily-available credit and an abundance of work would last forever. When it crashed, it came down hard and I was left gasping, neck-deep, in a sea of debt.
 In short order I lost it all...the wife...the dog...the house...the car and pretty much everything else in between. My retrenchment package was enough to settle my debts with almost nothing left over.
I thought I'd easily find another job - after all I was at the top of my game and over the years I'd built up an impressive network of contacts - I was wrong. No-one wanted to hire a fifty-something man, and after six months of making calls and sending out CVs, I gave up looking for work.

Thoughts on short stories

 I love writing short stories - or to paraphrase Leo Tolstoy, I hate writing short stories but like having written short stories!
 The short story is the 100 metre dash of writing, where, unlike the novel, there is no space to build and develop complicated plots and characters. The short story-author must, by way of broad brush-strokes and subtle guidance, get the reader to build the details in his or her imagination.
 It's enough to say: "He opened the car but not fast enough not to puke on his trousers."
 No need to describe the car, it's colour, make, seat make-up or the fabric of his trousers or - God forbid - the contents and consistency of the vomit.
 It matters not at all, if one reader sees the car in his mind's eye as a silver Lexus and another pictures it a lime green Camaro. A good short story makes everyone's experience unique.
 Short stories are more radio dramas, than television series and I like that.
 But what I like most is they are...short! By nature, the short story is an intense, bite-sized chunk of entertainment, consumed in a single gulp that must release a storm of flavours and emotions. It is the literary get-down-to-business-with-no-foreplay orgasm. The complete package. No coming back next week.

Pondering

 A good short story leaves a reader pondering, hours after it is done. It perplexes, challenges and delights and often works best with an ending that is not all neatly wrapped up.
 What, you may be wondering, has brought about this post?
 I am currently editing my latest Coffee Break Tale that, if all goes according to plan, will be published in the next couple of days. It's a somewhat bizarre account of unattainable love and dreams sold out. The first draft ran to about 6 000 words but I figure by the time I'm done, 2 000 words will disappear. If it were a novel, I undoubtedly would not be so ruthless.
 Writers put great stock in the number of words they produce each day. Readers too, believe more words make a work worth more and that is sometimes true - Tolstoy's "War and Peace" is a good example.
 But the flip side is Hemingway's famous six-word short story that is, in many ways, even more thought-provoking.
 According to Wikipaedia, in a 1992 letter to Canadian humorist, John Robert Colombo, science fiction writer Arthur C. Clarke recounts it thus: While lunching with friends at a restaurant (variously identified as Luchow's or The Algonquin), Hemingway bets the table ten dollars each that he can craft an entire story in six words. After the pot is assembled, Hemingway writes:

"For sale: baby shoes, never worn" 

on a napkin, passes this around the table, and collects his winnings.
 Food for thought indeed!

Paranoia, fear and loathing

 

 I saw a bumper sticker once that read: "Just because you say I'm paranoid doesn't mean they aren't out to get me."
 We are all the victims and the products of paranoia at times.
 Not a day goes by where there is not a grisly murder perpetrated by someone from a particular race group or a crime committed by a faction of society different from the one with which we identify.
 And left unquestioned, our prejudices and paranoia grow bigger and more terrifying every day.
 I am not immune. I grew up in apartheid, South Africa and have prejudices. I am not proud of it, it's just the way it is - or hopefully was.
 In a few hours I will attend my beloved father's funeral memorial service. He died last week after a long period of illness where he suffered terribly and, in the end, required 24/7 home care, as he was incapable of speaking, moving or even swallowing. Aged 80, my mother needed assistance but simply could not afford the exorbitant fees that professional nursing services wanted.
 And then help came, from the most unlikely of sources. The people who arrived to care for my father, in the last weeks of his life, wanted nothing in return. They washed him, they fed him, they slept beside his bed, they comforted my mother, and they hugged me when I was overcome with emotion and though they only knew him for a few weeks they shed tears when he took his last breath at 18h00 last Sunday.

Guardian Angels

 They were indeed guardian angels -- and they were also the subjects of my personal paranoia and prejudices that've accompanied me throughout my life.
 I felt, ashamed, ridiculous and incredibly stupid and will forever be grateful to them, not only for what they did for my father but for forcing me to look within myself and ask questions.
 My latest short story "I Know You Plan to Kill Me" examines these questions.

You can check it out here:

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