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PUBLISHING THIS MANUSCRIPT ON THE INTERNET AUTOMATICALLY IMPLIES COPYRIGHT OF THE WORK BY THE AUTHOR. 

WALKING ON THE SUN

A NOVEL BY CHRIS WAIT


Walking on the Sun                                                                                          Page 1        

I dedicate this novel to my hero and idol, the late Leonard Cohen who passed away last night while I was struggling desperately for my own life (like we all do each time we close our eyes and face the empty cathedrals in our minds.)

When I was a child my father once drove us from Winburg to Bloemfontein to watch the circus. Apparently we never left.

Innocence can only be experienced in the moment you live it. It is something you only have once in your life, and when it’s gone; it’s far gone. When the dreaded day arrives in which it’s expiry date demands attention, it is lost once and for all; only to live on as a second hand, often idealized and over romanticized fantasy of a mind that now entered the human race against a clock that ticks away incessantly with every beat of your heart. Never again will it be fully understood with both your mind and emotions to the extent when you simply lived it, swam in it like a mammal in breathable water, being so fully invoked by it that you are not even aware of it as something separate from your own unconscious existence. It’s just there. Like skin. Like an ignorant collapsed lung in a corpse being eaten by sharks. That is it’s only purpose: to be without hesitation or reason; and your only purposes is to be one with it, and to play.

It does not take long to lose this thing you will never truly know again. It can happen in a second. In one glance from a stranger  in that  perfect moment where all the little things you tried to ignore for as long as possible suddenly align perfectly like planets of your very personal and unnameable inner universe. Suddenly logic cannot be cheated any longer and all the evidence that you have really landed on planet earth connects to form the first gruesome distortion, an objective hologram depicting your lonely separation. In that fearful moment you are completely fucked; never to be unfucked again until the day you kiss the daisies.

It also does not necessarily take a huge traumatic incident. It can be something subtle and simple, like the moist red lips of you mothers best friend, the slight sweat


Walking on the Sun                                                                                          Page 2         

on her inner thigh on a warm summers day at a church  picnic on a Sunday afternoon

This is not how it happened for Martin though. The universe had a very special and cruel plan for this little child. Martin got fucked long and hard right from the start. Martin experienced God’s omnipresent boner in all its magnificent power and dubious glory with an unholy big bang that fragmented his universe into billions of tiny pieces, burning so hard that it melted the sun.

This is his story

Word Goal: 90 000 - Current Word Count: 474 -  Remaining Words: 89 526 

SUGGESTED PLEDGE

A bottle of house-wine in Van Hunks in Kloof Street, Cape Town would be nice right now, amigo.

21H 25MIN - 11-11-2016 - Woodstock, Cape Town


a thousand words for Anthea Oosthuizen from Cape Town...

 

SUGGESTED PLEDGE

I could really do with some airtime (so I can upload shit). These Vodacom rates are killing my drinking budget. :  +27 (0)82 298 1171

08H 31MIN - 12-11-2016 - Woodstock, Cape Town

How early is too early to dop?

Should I start drinking now?

  yes   no

Hi Anthea Oosthuizen! Here it is, but it's not a thousand words, it's 1505!

Martin was never a normal child. He was always accused of asking too many questions, way too many. He couldn’t help himself. There was this restless thing inside his head that wouldn’t stop working. It was like a separate entity banging against his skull from the inside, twirling and pirouetting, sometimes creating obscene graffiti on his living bone walls. (He masturbated often from an early age on.)

As he looked at the thin steel shaving blade he was about to insert in the latest and cheapest plastic version of a once robust device, he asked himself a series of questions within the first two seconds: “How many men have confused shaving with suicide in the past before clubbing girls and curly facial hair became so unfashionable and irksome to the female gender that a conspiracy evolved to get rid of beards? Was the first owner of a shaving device company, in fact; a devious bitch? Can all male suicides through rusty Minora blades therefore be blamed on feminists? Were the girls who committed suicide thus, then lesbians? Did the torturous secret of their lesbianism drive them towards this act of self-annihilation?” He even asked himself how many times he might have committed suicide in previous lives since the shaving blade was invented and if this could clarify why he had a mortal fear of losing his hair despite the fact that everybody tried to convince him that he looks like a filthy, devil worshipping hippie? Etc., etc., etc…

Walking on the Sun                                                                                                 Page 3                                                                                                                  

Obviously, this type of internal dialogue has led to many, many instances of miscommunication which in turn has brought on traumatic and often dangerous events. This was his biggest curse.

This plague of questions have been haunting his existence as far as he could remember. When other children simply ate their lunch, he hardly ate at all. Instead he would stare into the blue yonder and think about odd shit with a gaping mouth while a tiny drooling of mucus ran down his chin. He wanted to know how bread was invented. Who the hell came up with the concept of SLICED bread? Will bread one day be replaced by some kind of super bread when space-travel becomes an everyday occurrence and the weight and power consumption of ovens makes baking impractical?

To any observer, this staring and drooling made him look like your average village idiot, therefore this terrible wandering of the mind and absent attitude towards packed lunches had the result of him being ridiculed to a great degree. He looked like a halfwit, so therefore he was judged to be one, and it didn’t take him long to be convinced, that he was, in fact; the biggest dunce in school (maybe even in the small town he was fated to grow up in).

“I mean, I must be pretty dumb, right? All the other people think I am and the majority are always right, right? I wonder WHY I am so stupid! Could it be a simple equation of too little brain matter? Could it be my fate? Can brain matter be exercised, or am I truly fuct for life? Is there an external God that can perhaps grant me the miracle of intelligence if I pray long and hard enough?”

For a thirteen year old, these were hefty questions to struggle with indeed.

This unfortunate miscommunication with others and himself lead to him developing a very low self-esteem almost from day one. By the time he was a handsome young man he barely existed as a human in his own mid. When he looked in the mirror he saw an ugly failure, something that would have been stoned to death in earlier days when folks were still wild and believed in living demons and gods within the bodies of men and women. After all the pain and torture of his childhood and his teens brought on by the whip of insecurity, he was driven to make the conscious decision to become a sociopath. He simply could not bear the mental pain any longer, so he decided to

Walking on the Sun                                                                                          Page 4                                                                                                                  

banish all emotion from his life. Being; in reality, a super clever bastard, he became very adept at this.

And now in his adult life, Martin is not your average, average man. He has way too many chips on both of his shoulders for this. In spite of these shortcomings on a mental level, like most heroes of successful fictional stories, he is handsome and intelligent with a wicked sense of humour. Having no real feeling left, many of his jokes are seen to be insensitive and out of place by others, which turned him into a very lonely and isolated man. The only emotion that would boil to the surface of his otherwise emotionally murdered mind, are extreme fits of rage.

Sadly, this isolates him even more. He learned not to speak his mind as often as he would have liked. The results of his spoken thoughts are both too uncomfortable and impractical. He needed to work and eat and that meant he had to function in normal society somehow. As a result he became a very quiet and self-disciplined sociopath. He became a non-talkative and uncommunicative machine. This does not stop him from thinking in overdrive though. That he could never learn to control. Even his bouts of extreme chemical and alcohol indulgences does not do much to tame this beast. (He never stops trying though)

Martin have been existing in this distorted view of himself for thirty-two years now, but a series of extraordinary events are about to change this. Martin is about to discover his own power.

He’s been thinking about serious things lately: how the world is becoming one big corporation where souls are canned and stacked in neat little rows in big factories  as not to  stand out and thereby offending the sensibilities of the big men at the top. Easily countable and packed away so they won’t interfere with the evil plan of the corporate masters. Those who somehow managed to break free from the disaster of living within the womb of the machine are starved and punished by these big men because of the fear they invoke, the fear that this BIG MACHINE might break down if to many little bolts and nuts escape, and take them down with it.

Walking on the Sun                                                                                                 Page 5                                                                                                                  

 The punishments for being daring to this degree was severe and subtly worked out over many ages. If they didn’t have the desired effect there was something else that could get the crazies back in line. They would be stoned to death by their jealous peers who did not want to be reminded of the type of life they could not obtain.  Instead of heralding the bravery and spirit of these renegades, and instead of spurring them onwards to fight their collective prison wardens and captors, they were often despised and looked down upon. Instead of being seen as heroes in the service of their fellow man with the noble purpose of leading the way and to inspire others to break free from their mental and material chains, they were tortured and ridiculed, often banned from the cosy safety of the herds comfort zone. Only an extremely tiny minority succeed in becoming free and heralded at the same time, and they were put on pedestals so high that nobody could reach them and hear what they actually had to say. The message had to travel such a great distance that the words and their true meaning got distorted or simply blown away by the wind, and so ironically their cause was defeated by its own success.

This, of course; suited the masters at the top just fine. They cunningly understood that they could abuse these lofty heroes into empowering and spreading their own diseased dogma even further.

He’s been thinking about these things, about how rare it is for an individual like this to be held in high esteem in his or her own time, and he’s been wondering what it would take to become one of these super human souls. He’s been asking himself the dangerous question of “Can I perhaps do it?”, and mostly the answer came back as one of emphatic denial. “Of course not you idiot! Are you having delusions of grandeur again? These thoughts might lead to feelings you no good son of a bitch! And you KNOW what feelings do, right? They HURT like a motherfucker! You are just a normal rat in the filthy sewer of humankind and you are lucky to be alive at all. Accept your fate in the gutter and get on with your life.”

Mostly he left it at that and continued with his mundane existence as a fitter and turner on a gold mine in the Free Sate. But more and more recently these meanderings and questions would pop up again and again in his mind like an

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uninvited guest at a party for one. He has even been losing some sleep over these ideas. 

Word Goal: 90 000 - Current Count: 1 979 -  Remaining Words: 88 021 

 VIDEO of the first pledge by ANTHEA OOSTHUIZEN

17-11-2016

 

Do you want to make a pledge for the next piece of writing? Here's is what I need now, but you can pledge anything you like really.

1: FOOD! I'm running low on funds. Any food will be great! Leftovers are cool. Things in your cupboards or fridge that's going to waste. I don't mind chomping down on stuff way past the expiry date. It hasn't killed me so far, so all good. (Even if it does, you won't be to blame. I will take full responsibility; literally as well as figuratively.) A meal-ticket at Kentucky... Whatever man. You can also pick me up and take me out if you wan't to discuss the plot of my manuscript. I'm in Cape Town for a little while still.

2: Booze. Anything really. I need it for 'inspiration'.

3: A prostitute. I really need to get some semen out of me, and not by my own hand. It's been going slow in that regard lately.

What type of prostitute?

If the main character, Martin; would get himself a prostitute, what should she look like?

  Skinny with small tits   Voluptuous with a bit of meat   Shemale with tits and dick

On the spur of the moment I decided to go and visit my friend Ian Simons in Tulbagh. He's got a little piece of magic on the edge of town. I took the train to Wellington from where I hitched the rest of the way. - 13-11-2016



Culinary Tactics is pledging R 100 for the next piece of writing. I am currently in Tulbagh at my friend Ian’s place for a day or two.  I suppose you could call it a writers retreat. We had a little social affair here this afternoon. We are supporting Charmaine, the lady who does an excellent job of cleaning up after our occasional revelry out here, so R 50 goes towards her services and the rest will go to the papsak (cheap wine in a bag) fund. Thank you so much Culinary Tactics

13-11-2016

 

                

Culinary Tactics! Here are 948 words for you...


The first man he killed was a woman. He was only nineteen. It was the same day he lost his virginity. He just started his apprenticeship. It was her words that set him off, and he always blamed HER for her death by his hands.

“I’m glad you are such a hero. Just don’t expect ME to admire you.”

The words was meant as a joke, but a certain degree of cynicism was hidden not too deep beneath the surface. All these men that thought they were so grand in in a world where the general consensus decreed God to be a man, has collapsed for her a long time ago. She got over that one when she was first molested at the age of eleven.

Although she was still attached to a dick, she always knew that she was a woman. Growing up with this knowledge made for a hard and lonely life. For a long time she had to pretend to be a boy. The only other person who knew her secret was her uncle who liked to penetrate her from behind on Sunday afternoons on Christmas holidays when the rest of the family was taking a nap. Somehow he’s predator instinct sniffed it out. In the beginning it was brutal, but after the initial shock and devastation she learned to accept it, and even mistook it for love after a while. The old fart is long dead now, the victim of a heart attack at the age of sixty-two. It must have been all those Christmas lunches that did him in, that and his guilty conscious. She smirked at the irony of it all often. Sometimes she even missed him a bit. It wasn’t all just fucking. Sometimes he talked to her as well afterwards, in a pathetic gentle type of panting voice, urging her to study hard and not to reveal their secret. He would always give her some money for sweets and cool-drink. That’s how it all started. She soon realized that she could retrieve a little power from being a victim. It was not long before the sweets and cool-drinks morphed into shoes make-up, trinkets and clothing. For a long time she could only wear these for him behind a closed door, but there came a day when she walked to the front door past the rest of the family busy watching TV, she was dressed in a floral dress and smeared with grotesquely overdone make-up. She made her escape with a palpitating heart. She never saw them again.

Walking on the Sun                                                                                          Page 7                                                                                                                  

It took allot of courage for him to phone the number. He was never good with girls. He was way too shy, besides; he didn’t see himself as being handsome at all. He thought of himself as average and not too clever and also a bit weird to top it all off, therefor he did not press his luck much with girls. In fact, he was a bit scared of girls. It always felt like they were staring and giggling at him, mocking all his shortcomings.

He got the number off a public urinal wall. He took a picture of it with his phone. At night he would take it out and imagine a beautiful woman and masturbate. Afterwards he would analyse the handwriting intensely. He fell in love with the number, the idea of the person, the slender and delicate hand that wrote on the wall. He developed an intense craving for this enigma. When he finally met her in a dark little room in a cheap hotel on the outskirts of town close to the highway, he wasn’t disappointed that she had a penis. He knew that she really was a woman, and to him she was perfect. Her thin red lips had a sexy kind of cruelty to it, and she had the confidence he lacked; guiding and showing him what needed to be done. He imagined her to be some sort of protector, a wise and experienced teacher in the ways of love. It didn’t really matter much to him that the lovemaking was from behind and when he went to the bathroom afterwards, that his penis had the slight odour of shit. He entered and came in her, and that’s all that mattered. The bond was sealed. He became one with her. He owned her now, and she was his master and goddess. She wanted to leave immediately afterwards but he convinced her to stay, taking out a half empty bottle of cheap whisky and two glasses from his bag. He planned for all possible scenarios, except for the one that happened soon afterwards.

He lay next to her and suddenly he felt the urge to share his life and dreams with her. He started talking about  many things he’s been cropping up for so many years. She listened, faking interest; keeping an eye on the dwindling alcohol, figuring what else she could get out of the situation. She felt hungry. She hasn’t eaten for a while. Then what she always dreaded entered the one-sided conversation: the insecure male trying to prove his worth in order to win her over. She was not there to be won. She was there to do what she needed to do. She was no prize, she was nobody’s prize.

 

Walking on the Sun                                                                                          Page 8                                                                                                                  

He woke from the blackout with broken glass mixed with blood all over the place like he was waking into a three dimensional Jackson Pollock. He didn't  know how long he was gone for. It must have been a while, and he must have been a busy absentminded stranger in that time. How else could you explain her severed head in his lap? 

Word Goal: 90 000 - Current Count: 2 927 -  Remaining Words: 87 073 

The next segment is for a pledge of lunch and beer by novelist Tom Dreyer. Shot Tom!

What next?

What should happen next?

  Martin has a close encounter with the police   Martin discovers drugs


879 words for novelist Tom Dreyer...

I took a long time to cut her up into tiny pieces and clean the place. He phoned the number on the spattered brochure on the bedside table and booked another day. He asked the half-blind old man at the front desk to send up someone with cleaning materials. “I’m sorry to say but I seem to have some sort of bug and I got sick during the night. The place is a mess.”

He told the cleaning lady to leave the chemicals and cleaning utensils outside the door and that he didn’t expect her to clean up after him. When she insisted on doing her job he slipped her some money under the door and hissed menacingly: “Go away!”

He burnt her clothes in the bath and together with the ashes he flushed her down the toilet bit by bit. He took what he could find in her pockets. The money he gave her, a plastic crucifix and some white powder that was wrapped in a tiny piece of plastic. He had a suspicion what it could be from the conversations the older men had at work. He has never used anything but alcohol in his life, but he was curious.

He packed the bones and her head in a black refuge bag to take with him. Al the hours he spent working he thought about the possibility of making some sort of art piece from her bones. A sculpture in honour of love, perhaps? This kept him calm. Afterwards he felt good. It was a good process to work through and he got some clarity from it. He felt no remorse. What happened, happened. Life is too short to wallow in negative feelings, or any kind of feelings at all. He had to get on with things. For the first time that he could remember he actually felt the stirring of real confidence. He felt strong. Like a man, or at least what he imagined a real man to be.

Walking on the Sun                                                                                          Page 9                                                                                                                

 2 - Enter the Dragon

She has always been the naughty one. The black sheep of the family who pushed the boundaries. She wanted to believe that she was an artist. That she was experimenting with life and that this was the reason for her living like she did. Sometimes she even managed to convince herself. Today was a bad day. She woke up with two men, she could not remember any of them and they were both fat and ugly, smelling like Rum. Snoring. Making audible morning farts. They were both in their late forties and had the hands of men who did manual work in the belly of the earth their whole lives long. They were naked and she hurt in all the wrong places, both at the rear and in the front. She hated herself and her life in that moment. She looked at the two men and started weeping softly. This went on for a minute or so before she managed to pull herself together again.

“Man de fuck up Lucy!”

She picked up pieces of her clothes that lay intertwined with their blue overalls and stained underwear. This sickened her somewhat. She didn’t know the place. It was a crummy little mining house. In the bleak living room she saw beer bottles containg cigarette buds and the evidence of coke lines on the glass top of the kitsch and cracked coffee table. She felt filthy. She looked around for anything she could salvage in order to reclaim some of her lost dignity: a half empty packet of cigarettes, a bottle of brandy, a child’s fluffy pink toy and a few bottles containing a variety of pills. (She felt that she needed the toy to hold onto. She didn’t bother with why. She just clasped the ridiculous thing with all her might in her frail hands.) She washed down a variety of pills with a few swigs of brandy. She hoped that it would calm her down, because she was about to lose it. She could feel one of her black moods coming on. She didn’t bother to read the labels. It didn’t take long for her to realize that she took the wrong cocktail. Her heart started beating loudly in her chest. She wanted to run out into the early dawn street and never stop, but something kept her behind. She went to the garage. In one corner she found a 5 litre can of paraffin next to a heater in preparation of the coming winter. She took the paraffin to the bedroom and placed it next to the bed. Then she went back and rifled through the pill boxes. (This time around she read the labels.) She found some sleeping pills and crushed

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them all up. She went back to the room with the two brutish, bearded men and managed to spoon-feed it all to them. (They were still very drunk.) Then she waited fifteen minutes, smoking two cigarettes consecutively while clutching the brandy bottle with nervous, twitching fingers. She went back into the room and fed each of them some paraffin. She poured the rest over the bed and set it alight. She walked out calmly, like a lady should; and she never looked back. She was seventeen years old and ready to live again. 

Word Goal: 90 000 - Current Count: 3 806 -  Remaining Words: 86 194

It was great to chat to novelist Tom Dreyer at the Trumpet Tree Restaurant in Stellenbosch. He gave me some valuable writing tips and a signed copy of his latest publication; Dorado.

Pledge: what I need is food and booze, but anything will do.  

16-11-2016, Cape Town           

 

Where should they meet?

Where should Martin and Lucy meet for the first time?

  In a bar   On top of a mine dump   In the middle of an empty sports field   At the scene of an accident

NEXT PLEDGE: For artist Ian Simons in return for accommodation, food and a train ticket back to Cape Town. Thanks!


I'm thinking keeping your brain young and flexible is probably important for imaginative writing, so I like to play and be silly.

2 444 words for artist Ian Simons...

One year on and she has lost that feeling. It was a crooked year. A parasite on a black dog. Her father died in a mining accident. She has a suspicion it might have been more of a suicide than an accident. Falling down an old shaft is not the type of mistake miners make. Nothing was left of him. His body was torn apart by iron rods sticking from the sides. It was a long way down. The result was a tapestry of flesh adorning a manmade cliff. She knows that he’s colleagues teased him often about his slutty daughter and wife. Some of them knew the colour of his sheets. It drove him to booze and severe depression. She couldn’t help herself. She liked to fuck with abandon. It made her feel free; even loved. She got turned on quickly and had no problem reaching an orgasm. She was easy, so what? It was just meat entering meat, and it was pleasurable. She knew everybody talked behind her back, but she didn’t care. Fuck them.

This was different though: her mother leaving with another man without so much as a goodbye hurt her badly. She thought of her mother as her best friend. They even shared some boys. This was a tremendous treachery. It’s been more than three months now and not a word.

“Filthy bitch!”

She splatters the words vehemently across the bar counter. She feels alone and abandoned. She also has no money. She hasn’t eaten for five days and for more than a week now she’s been living in a filthy house with no electricity. She decided it was time to act. Now she is sitting at the counter with a small rucksack on her lap. She decided to go on a prolonged holiday to wherever circumstances take her, but

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first she aims to get loaded. She’s been making eye contact with a middle aged man for the last ten minutes or so. He is her type of prey. A loner and a bit shy. A loser basically. He just offered to by her a drink, and she accepted without hesitation. Shame has no place around here.

“You seem angry?” He has genuine tenderness I his voice.

Being a sales rep is a lonely job and he needs company. He likes to talk, that’s all; and he does not mind paying for it. Buying drinks is nothing to him. He makes enough and he has no wife nor kids.

“How very perceptive of you. Yes, I’m angry. I hate this place. Listen man, this is going to sound real shitty, but I haven’t eaten for a while. If you buy me a meal I’ll blow you. Seriously.”

She gives him an intense and desperate look. Her eyes seem hollow and lost to him. The dark rings around them enhances this effect.

“She’s real pretty”, he muses to himself, “but neglected. What a shame. She could be a stunner. All she needs is some attention”

He laughs in a melancholy sort of fashion. A laugh that lacks confidence. He’s grief stricken fat, red face with all its little popping veins caused by many hours of chatting to strangers and buying drinks in lonely bars, lights up like a circuit board.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to blow me. Sure I will buy you a meal. Choose anything you like.”

She eyes him suspiciously. “Why are you so nice? You are not going to preach to me are you? I don’t like bible bashers. That price is too high. I will rather just blow you for it.”

“No girl, I’m not religious. Your soul is unsafe enough with me, no too worry.” He chuckles like a mechanical teddy bear.

She likes the way he said ‘girl’. He is old enough to be her father and it makes her feel like he really cares for her, even though he doesn’t know her from a bar of soap. She indulges the fantasy for a minute: “Could I hook up with him perhaps? Sure he’s old, fat and ugly; but he has kind eyes. I haven’t seen those for a while.”

She orders the biggest steak on the menu, medium to rare. She devours it like an animal. He just looks at her from across the other side and keeps plying her with booze. Much later he goes to sit next to her. They talk for a long time. She decides

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that she actually likes him (in a parental sort of fashion.) He honestly does not want anything from her. She goes back to his hotel with him and passes out on a separate bed. (She was very drunk). The next day they leave town together. Her mood is still black. She feels like she is drowning slowly. She wants to speed things up. They don’t get far. Not long after they hit the road she acts on a sudden impulse. It isn’t a rational thing. He is a fast driver. She grabs the steering wheel as they enter a sharp bend on the dirt road at high speed. She is hoping for a quick death.

 

“That town is so pretentious you can shit on a brick and call it art.”

Clive used to work in Cape Town doing special effects on film sets. Before that he was in the military for almost a decade. Now he is and explosive expert on the mines. He is also Martin’s best (and possibly only) friend. Being a bit older than Martin he is also a role model and teacher. They have a few vital things in common: they both like guns and shooting at things and both are loners, preferring not to get too involved in the local social scene or workshop politics. That’s what caused the mutual attraction. They found each other like two wolves on the edge of the pack who decided to hunt together.

This is definitely not Martins preferred way of fishing: blowing fish out of the water with sticks of dynamite is too loud and too messy. There is also allot of waste. He likes to watch though. It is exciting.

Clive inherited the farm from a childless uncle, and that’s what prompted the move from Cape Town to the empty expanses of the central Free State. Martin visited here on weekends often. It was good to escape the dreary town. They would spend the day hunting small game, fishing or doing military drills with a vast array of weapons Clive have been stockpiling over the years. Not all were legally owned, but like Martin; Clive enjoyed toeing the edge and test how deep and murky the water could get before swallowing you up whole.  Adventure was the name of the game and adrenaline the drug of choice. A fatalistic disposition was just a natural requirement to be comfortable with this way of existence. Neither of them entertained thoughts of growing old.

“Have you ever killed a man?”

 

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The sun is getting low. They are sitting on the veranda overlooking the veldt, each with a whisky in the hand. The fire is burning and a silver casserole dish harbours a variety of meat ready for the braai.

What makes you ask that?”

“Don’t know. Just wondered. You don’t have to answer.”

“No it’s okay. I don’t mind.”

Clive takes a long sip before replying: “At the time I went into military service the war was long over, so no. I never saw that type of combat. I saw many young men get shot to pieces and fuct-up to various degrees just because of general stupidity and accidents in training though. One of my best friends got his head blown clean off right in front of me by a man who should never have been allowed to carry a weapon. I almost killed HIM. I beat him up so bad they had to perform emergency surgery on his face. He almost lost an eye. I never felt bad about that though”

They both keep quiet for a while.

“To be honest, I don’t really like violence.” Clive utters it like a confession of something he did wrong.

“I can help myself in a fight if I have to, you know? Around here especially you have to stand up for yourself with all these insecure and stupid violent testosterone intoxicated pricks hanging about, but I don’t enjoy it like some men do. Sure, I like guns and explosives, but that’s a different kettle of fish.”

He finishes the last of his drink and gets up to pour them both another one.

“How about you? Do you have violent tendencies at all?”

Clive knows he won’t get much. Martin is not a big talker, he’s more of an observer, but Clive has seen his keen wit and intelligence blossom in moments when he is off-guard and relaxed. Mostly Martin is an enigma to him, and that’s just fine. They have a good relationship. It never gets too personal or close.

Martin’s face twitches slightly in the glow of the flames.

“Me? No man. I don’t like it either.” And that’s all Clive gets. Martin knows that he’s lying though. He’s been in a few scraps and he found the adrenaline and blood to be highly intoxicating. Sometimes he craves for it. Especially if he had a bit too much to drink. Like now.

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He didn’t sleep well the previous night. He tossed and turned while thinking about the incident at the hotel. It bothered him that it didn’t bother him too much. Is there something wrong with him? It played out in his head like an action movie, the type he liked. He wanted more. He enjoyed the feeling of power it gave him, the adrenaline. It was like a drug. He thinks about the cocaine. It is still in his jacket pocket. He decides that he has transformed himself from being a victim into being a predator, and that this is a good thing. Everything that lives will die. It might as well be by his hand. Why not? He can become an instrument for the greater good. A magician that works with chaos. Regeneration requires death. If society wants to define him as ‘the bad guy’, so be it. It’s their flawed logic that’s to blame. People like him need to exist.  “People like me are part of the whole melodrama. We are needed. Someone needs to do the killing so that morality fits its own definition. It’s all one movie anyway, and this is my role. I happen to like my role. If others don’t understand it, it’s their problem. Not mine.”

He decided not to go looking for it though. If things come across his path he will react. If not, so be it. He can get the same type of thrill in other ways, like hanging out with Clive and blowing shit up.

It was a 62 km drive back to town. He is taking it at a leisurely pace, enjoying the passing rows of maize. Drifting into his own mind. Empowering himself with visions of his latest future.

It is a narrow dirt road that is mostly used by farmers. On a Sunday it was quiet. About halfway he goes around a bend and sees the silver car lying on its side next to the road. Blood is spattered on the front windshield opposite the driver’s seat. It must have happened recently. There are no emergency services. Apparently he is the first person on the scene. A thin trail of grey smoke emits from the buckled hood. As he gets closer he can see someone sitting on the shoulder of the road. It’s a young girl with blood on her face. She is holding the head of a motionless man on her lap. He pulls over and walks to her. He does not feel shocked or surprised. In fact, he feels alarmingly calm. The odour of smoke and petrol fumes excites him. He walks over and stands in front of the girl. She is beautiful in a menacing way. The thick blood on her pale face looks like modern art. She stares at him vacantly. There is a deep gash

 

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on her upper left cheek. He touches it with his forefinger roughly, more out of interest sake than out of empathy. “Does it hurt?”

“Dead.” She replies. “All dead, or gone.”

He looks at the man’s face on her lap. He’s jaw is twisted in an unnatural fashion. It does not seem like he’s breathing.

“You are going to have to come with me. I will take you to the hospital. What’s your name?”

“Lucy.” She mumbles this with a more than lacklustre composure. Uncaring and cold, almost to the point of sneering.

“Ah, like the first woman? You know, the bones, the remains they found?”

Lucy feels a sudden pang of interest lifting her into the present moment, as if his comment awoke her to reality. She almost feels like laughing. What a bizarre statement given the circumstances. She looks up at the tall handsome man in front of her and gives a faint smile.

“Aren’t you the joker?”

“What? You must be in shock.” He looks at her with a perplexed expression.

She smiles at him. “No I’m just a crazy bitch.”

She lets out a little wild yelp and laughs.

“Come, let’s go.” He takes her by the hand and leads her to his bakkie. She follows him like a child. He seats her in the passenger seat.

He starts the engine and drives towards the man lying sprawled on the dirt. He stops next to the body, gets out and lifts it by the torso, dragging it to the back where he manages to get it onto the tailgate first before he climbs up to drag it all the way in. He gets back in and they drive off. Suddenly the scene is quiet again. There is hardly any sound in the lifeless yellow grass. The breeze bends the stalks gently. The immediate universe has no recollection, guilt or fear. The moments of terror and violence are swept away and disappears into the warm Sunday afternoon like it never transpired.

They drive for a while before he speaks: “Family or friend?”

He points over his shoulder with his thumb. The lifeless body in the back shakes loosely with the motion of the speeding vehicle.

 

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“None of the above. Stranger. Some drunk I met at a bar. A rather nice man actually. I caused the accident on purpose you know? I wanted to kill us both. Just my luck. I’m still here. Fuck this life!” 

Word Goal: 90 000 - Current Count: 6 250 -  Remaining Words: 83 750

Pledge: the next piece will be for Nadia Hearne and BLOOM HAIR SALON.  

 

24-11-2016, Stellenbosch   

What next?

What happens next?

  The police get's involved.   They go on a strange date.   We jump to a bizarre scene in the future.

1 529 words for hair stylist Nadia Hearne from BLOOM HAIR SALON in Woodstock...

They drive for a while in silence. Suddenly there is a tap on the window. They are both startled. She twists her head back sharply. In the rear-view mirror he can see a bloody finger tapping against the glass. No head is visible, only the outstretched arm, and a hand frail and shaking like a leaf torn from the tree of life by a vicious gale.

They look at each other with questioning eyes. Two seconds tick by slowly.

“Fuck me! What now?” She asks with an agitated voice.

Many things suddenly rush through his mind. This is turning out to be a strange day indeed, as if a mysterious voice is giving credence to the resolution he made earlier on. This came over his path. There must be a reason. Maybe a higher power in the universe has something planned for him? Maybe this is his path, the one that has been laid out for him by an unseen force since birth.

“What do you want to do?” He asks probingly.

The man in the back keeps on tapping lightly with one bloody finger. Severe choking intersected with moaning sounds are filtering through the translucent window. She asks him for a cigarette. He obliges. She lights it with the bakkie’s lighter. She seems calm now as she takes deep drags, expelling the smoke slowly like a grey spirit of clouds hiding contorted faces within its fluid body. She thinks about the strange day and looks at him sideways. He is handsome and also quiet and mysterious. His face does not betray much. She likes his energy. She decides that this must be fate, them meeting like this. She thinks about the incident that changed her life, about the two men who drugged and raped her and who she then killed. She felt happy and relieved then, but only for a while. The anger came back to haunt her soon after and she avoided emotional bonds with men, degrading relationships to short sprees of intense promiscuity, trying to fuck her anger away violently.

Now looking at this man next to her she’s feeling a slight stir again. This could be something. But first she must cleanse herself, get rid of all that hostility and shame that’s devouring her form the inside. She decides to trust fate and go with her feelings.

 

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“Let’s kill him.” The words come out flat and cold surrounded by a dark cloud of thick cigarette smoke. “He’s basically dead anyway.”

He drives on without flinching and almost immediately gives his equally emotionless reply: “Yes, that’s what I was thinking. Let’s kill him.”

Now their eyes meet and both of them are wearing faint smiles on their unmasked faces. They know now. They both know that a very unusual bond between them was just confirmed, and they both find this new adventure to be exhilarating.

He takes out a half jack of whisky from the cubbyhole and hands it to her. She takes a big swig and hands it back. He does the same.

“I know of a place we can take him”, he says with a husky voice, “it’s not far from here.”

He feels a gust of energy blowing through his body. He’s derelict soul is breathing fire. This intoxication is palpable, it hangs between them like an unseen force pulsing with dark matter amongst throbbing life. He jerks the steering wheel and makes a violent turn while making a loud howl. The tyres kick up dust and grit. She joins in the howling as they drive down a narrow dirt track that dissects from the larger gravel road. They are revelling in the strange mystery that chose them as its participants in this unfolding drama.

He knows this track well. When he was a youngster he and a friend would drive down it on weekends to go fishing. He had a dirtbike which was their carriage on many little misadventures. He only had a very few friends, fellow social outcasts that didn’t make it in the popular scene. Mathew was one, a wild boy with no fear. He admired this renegade and partner in crime.

Even back then he had a cool and calculating mind. He always carried an empty petrol can with him in his rucksack and they would stop at a few farmer’s homesteads on their way, claiming that they ran out of fuel and that they needed help. He never paid for petrol. He used his devious mind to his benefit like a sharp tool instead of wallowing in fear and guilt about the truth of his authentic nature. It made him feel worthy and alive, just like he felt now.

He looks over at Lucy. She’s sucking on the bottle with gusto, blowing smoke towards the grey sky; the blood on her cheek has dried and it looks like some sinister mask used by tribes in exotic rituals in undiscovered jungles where birds of paradise


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do delicate dances before they mate. It does not seem to bother her. She wears it like some pretty girls wear make-up; only better. She is also very beautiful in a menacing sort of way. He finds this picture alluring and he can feel something stirring within him. He wants her badly now. He’s body is aching for her. He can feel his adrenaline spiking and his heart pumping. Suddenly she seems like a goddess to him, her presence is the most beautiful thing he has encountered for a long while, maybe for the whole of his life even.

He puts the radio on, loud rock music hurtles through the thick air and he presses his foot down even harder. The bakkie is bucking over the tortured road like a mechanical hare fleeing for its life. He lets out a few loud shouts and she joins him. From time to time their eyes meet and this spurs both of them on to greater jubilation. There is a man called magic in the corner breaking a cold sweat while laughing insanely with a tricksters mask.

When they reach the river they are drunk with ecstasy.

“So what now?” She asks this with the perfect amount of abandon.

“I have this crazy idea. I think you might love it, perhaps. Well, maybe you will think it’s silly or totally insane, but I have it.”

He gets out of the bakkie and goes to stand next to the raging water. It’s been raining heavily. He looks at the water while dragging on yet another cigarette intensely. She gets out and goes to stand in front of him, looking into his eyes, blocking his view of the raging water. She grabs him by the crotch with one hand and gently starts caressing him. She looks into his eyes and speaks. “So tell me.”

He meets her gaze and replies: “I want to make art with the bones od dead people.”

They kiss each other intensely. They tear at each other like wild animals, ripping their clothes off. He throws her down on the soft river sand and spreads her legs. She relents willingly (this is a game she knows well.) She guides his throbbing penis with her hand into her. She is extraordinarily wet and ready to be taken. He rides her hard. They fuck like savages. She cums quickly and she wants more. He obliges and he fuels her moaning with rapid hard thrusts. When it’s finally over he rolls off her and they lie next to each other, touching each other’s outstretched hands lightly. The sky is dark and it starts to rain. They are both looking at the thunder now, laughing and crying at the flashes. When it’s over they take the mud and rub it over each


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others bodies. It’s their magic ritual taught to them by no-one except their shared universal belief in the power of NOW and the sacred teachings of the VOID.

                                

When they are finished they look like subterranean creatures who dwell deep within the moist earth, only to surface when the salty fragrance of fresh blood compels them to do so. The whites of their eyes are standing out against the dark mud and this gives them a strange and ghostly appearance, like creatures from another world bent on mayhem and destruction. They look back at the bakkie. They see a trail in the mud that leads to a bloody and broken body crawling through the grass, desperately trying to get away from the horrific scene he just witnessed. They walk over calmly. When they reach him they can hear his desperate moans and see his blood dripping onto the earth as it oozes from his viscous wounds. She takes his blood-caked hair in her frail hands while she straddles over him and with one leg on each side she violently whips his head towards the sky while uttering one of her shrill yelps, exposing the man’s crying throat to the hidden sun, offering his flesh to her hero for the kill. Martin gets on his knees and strangles the man until he is good and dead, the electric thunder is the last thing reflecting in his glassy eyes. 

Word Goal: 90 000 - Current Count: 7 779 -  Remaining Words: 82 221

Pledge: the next piece will be for Henri Jaques Blom and his family in whose house I'm staying at the moment...   

Henri and his family went to Italy for 2 weeks and I'm looking after their place and their two dogs, Weeny and Snoopy. Thanks for the accommodation folks, and thanks for the left over craft beers (those went quickly). - STRIPED HORSE

You can check out the cool app Henri and his partner developed, it's called Selfieq and it helps out quite a few charities.

01-12-2016, District 6, Cape Town   

The story-line of next piece will depend on the previous poll that's already been published, so scroll up and vote!

In the meantime you can vote on the following:

Violence As Art

Can violence be art?

  Absolutely not.   Yes, but only in rare cases where the results of the act transcends it's physical manifestation.   Yes, but only in the abstract sense when it's used as a metaphor in writing, theater and films.

996 words for my amigo Johnathan JJ David Stoltzman. He is a chef and he gave me accommodation at his residence in Seapoint.



John Love never cared much for sentimentality after his first failed attempt to publish his poetry at the age of twenty-two. He also never wanted to become a policeman, but at that particular age after his failure as poet and writer he needed something to do until something more promising came along. After seventeen years in the force nothing ever did, so he stayed on for the regular check and the dubious health benefits. At the age of thirty-nine and many years of witnessing the pain of the human condition expressing itself through violent acts, he harboured no more illusions about things like romantic love. That notion was dead to him, he had no need for the self-inflicted wounds romantics carry around proudly like battle scars in a war of ruins. He never married or had children and after a few disastrous relationships he decided to go it alone, he also became obsessed with his career as a detective. It was the perfect distraction to an otherwise failed life filled with confiscated substances abused with impunity, cheap whisky and greedy whores; each one of which he knew by their real names due to information gleaned from police files. Despite his sordid private life, he was a detective of extraordinary


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perception and tenacity. He scored the highest in his class and many people came to rely on his keen intelligence and insight. He built up quite a reputation for himself, and he deserved it.

This was the most bizarre scene he has come across up to this point in his career, not so much for the violence of it, but more for the creative way in which the crime scene was carefully planned and laid out. He knew he had to do with someone who took pride in what they were doing, and he also knew that this what not the first time the perpetrator killed. It was obvious that they had experience at the cold blooded well planned violence required to take a human life in this fashion. He was also sure that it would happen again and again, and that it was his duty to put an end to it. As he walked across the stage he had to use all his will to subdue the admiration that swelled within him. It was not proper to admire criminals or their doings. The conflict of interest was too great and emotionally confusing. He had to stay sharp en be focused. It became abundantly evident that this killer possessed an extraordinary mental constitution.

At the centre of the spectacle was a stretched canvas with an abstract painting on it depicting a strange scene. The sky was painted with human blood while the rest was a mixture of oil paint and a few other mediums. (Later on the lab test would reveal a significant amount of sexual fluids. It was this that lead him to the conclusion that it must have been a male and female collaborating in this murderous work of art.)

The landscape was filled with what seemed to be mythical creatures reminiscent of cave paintings. Some were winged with delicately crafted facial features but grotesque lower limbs seemingly in the act of trying to escape from land dwelling beasts. They were attached to the earth with thin lines, as if they were animal balloons.

The predators were depicted as prowling, fire breathing monsters, some feasting on pieces of what was supposedly flesh. There was a huge sun in one corner that seemed to engulf the scene with projecting light rays. A tree of life stood alone and aloof on a hill, its branches carrying all kinds of symbols like a Christmas tree that belonged in Alice in wonderland.

It made him think of paintings by artists like Edvard Munch and Emild Nolde, only more hellish and heavanish in the same moment. He has always been a keen


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follower of art and he read up on it in the few hours he had to spare between working on cases and getting wasted.

Around the canvas there was a circle of flat rocks in the fashion of a medicine wheel. Four of the larger rocks had different parts of the human anatomy displayed on its surface and each display was perfectly aligned with the cardinal directions.

At the north the head of an exceedingly beautiful woman was displayed. She had blonde hair and full lips. He estimated her to have been in her mid to late fifties at the time of her decapitation. She was beautifully made up and there was a carving of angelic wings on her forehead. Her blue eyes were kept open by fine wire constructions and it seemed as if her gaze was directed into an overhead spotlight shining down on her face.

“The light must be representing the sun. Obviously.” He whispered thoughtfully to himself as he observed the scene, pacing it slowly with his hands clasped loosely behind his back. He had to restrain himself from audibly uttering the word, “Beautiful”, as it spontaneously came to his mind.

She wore a crown of grass and her lips were painted blue.

At the east was what the coroner later identified as the womb. It was held in a silver cup to which feathers were tied. (Later to be identified as the feathers of a Fish Eagle).

 A few broken cigarettes encircled the stem of the glass and flowers were tastefully arranged among the human remains.

At the south was the severed breasts of the woman, her implants still crudely attached to it. A ring of sage was placed around each nipple and a tiny mirror reflected light from the spotlight onto the two mounds of flesh.

To the west was placed what was left of her sexual organs. Her vagina was placed in a black marble bowl and yellowed leaves were strewn all around it.

The painting was signed with two intertwining names finely written in black. It read: ‘Isabel and Horace’ 

Word Goal: 90 000 - Current Count: 8 775 -  Remaining Words: 81 225

Pledge: the next piece will be for the folks at Plankies Bar next to the Hangklip Hotel. I was the resident DJ there over Christmas for a few days and they gave me food and shelter while plying me with loads of tequila and whisky. Thanks guys! It was a jol of note!

What I need as a pledge now is any sort of accommodation...  

What should happen next?

  They go on a killing spree   A plane falls from the sky   They win a prize

1 274 words for the folks of Plankies and the Hangklip Hotel in Pringle Bay who looked so well after me over Christmas time.

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 3 – Killing Spree

Like blood thirsty predators they roamed the streets late at night, looking for possible victims. They had no specific criteria or plan. This is not the universe in which they operated. They were fueled by an intoxicating cocktail of instinct, magic and love for each other.

He worked during the day, keeping a low profile, not talking or engaging unnecessary with any of his fellow humans. They all accepted him as being an odd character anyway, and he saw himself being above their mundane level of existence. They operated like an inferior specie, not questioning, just following and doing what was required of them, conforming to the superficial hypocritical norms of a soulless society. He was not the same as them. He had a cause. He thought about shit and he questioned the status quo, he wanted to change things. He had a mission. He was an artist of blood and bones.

She spent most of the hours of her day in the garage they converted into a studio, preparing a canvas or making doodles on pieces of paper. There was always a glass of wine or whisky nearby and more often than not a wide variety of music jumped energetically from ceiling to wall to floor to ceiling. Sometimes the neighbours complained, but she didn’t care. The old lady and her decrepit husband could fuck right off as far as she was concerned. She was the queen in her domain, and a killer to boot. She had no time for sheep.

 

The rain just ceased and they are driving down an empty road shimmering under the streetlights, empty and desolate like a howling dog on a lonely hill. It’s two hours after midnight and they are loaded. A half empty whisky bottle sloshes from side to side in the space between their limbs. She’s clutching a cigarette between her thumb and index fingers like it’s a magic wand, swaying it around to the beat of the music, the swirling smoke making tiny and delicate grey ghosts that dissolves into the humid air within one continuous moment. Morcheeba’s Big Calm shatters her thoughts until only pure feeling remains. (This I one of her favourite songs. It is swaying her into a hypnotic killing mood, and she likes it.)

 

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 His hands are stuck to the steering wheel. He wears a determined expression as he concentrates on the road ahead, watching for moving shadows, for the victim he’s been craving for. Their gaze slowly moves from side to side as they scan the surrounding streetscape, passing them quietly in the pale moonlight.

“Who will be crazy enough to walk in the rain this time of night? There must be someone.” Her voice drifts gently above the soft music emanating from the speakers.

“We will find someone eventually, if not tonight; then tomorrow night, or the night after that. It’s just time passing. It’s of no importance. It will happen when it will happen. It must be right, you know what I’m saying?” He listens to the sound of his own voice and it sounds like the voice of a stranger to him, like another has taken control of his vocal chords, yet it is so fully him that it scares him a bit.

“Yes, right on. How many nights has it been now?” She gives him a quirky sideways look.

He meets her gaze: “A week perhaps? I’m not sure. Time passes differently these days… when we are together… you know?”

She nods her head in silent agreement one more time and reaches out with one hand to fondle his crotch. He’s arousal edges him on. It’s time now. He can taste the coming violence. They are both craving it.

A black shape crosses the road in a flash just ahead of them.

“Look, a cat! Ha!” she shouts wit zeal, “there is life in this night after all!”

He’s been doing the same job for sixteen years now and his tired of it. The hours are killing him, that and the extreme boredom. The little corner shop and café is situated at the centre point where three major residential areas converge, and it’s the only late night shop in town. The nights are mostly quiet and he spends many of his hours watching TV on a little screen hanging from a wall diagonal to the serving counter.

Tonight is particularly quiet. He considers closing early for a change. He thinks about his two daughters sleeping in their beds and decides to stay. If he starts to cut corners now he will find himself on a slippery slope. He has to persevere and be responsible. He has to think about his family. They must be put first.

The clock ticks by at an excruciatingly slow pace. He glances at it from time to time and resists the temptation to hate his life. “It’s all for them, it’s all for them.”


Walking on the Sun                                                                                        Page 24

At 01H45 he starts getting ready to leave. He closes the door, leaving the keys to dangle in the lock. He opens the register and starts counting the money. It’s been a slow day, but so it goes. Tomorrow the whole routine starts over.

They both become aware of the shimmering light on the corner in the same moment. It drew them like a full moon lures tropical insects in a vast jungle. They parked next to the opposite curb and watched the shop. One man was busy counting money on the counter. He was middle aged and he looked worn out. They looked at each other and smiled. No words were needed.

“I will go in first and check out the situation.”

He got out of the vehicle and walked over slowly. When he reached the glass door he gave a firm tap on the pane as he entered.

“Hi, you still open?”

“Only for another ten minutes or so. Please come in.”

He glanced at the man, his tired eyes made him look vulnerable and sad.

He walked to the back, passing a row of candy on one side and magazine on the other. He wondered if there was a security camera, but he wasn’t too worried. He didn’t care if he was caught. He simply didn’t care. He was just making a movie, living a life of lives. It was all worth it. His heart was racing slightly, but not too much. It was just enough. He enjoyed the adrenalin. He had no plan. He was moving deep within the sacred moment. He walked all the way to the back and stared at the cooldrink bottles for a while. He took out a two litre coke bottle and walked to the counter. The man was still counting his takings. When he was close enough he smashed the bottle over the man’s head with one swift motion. There was no thought, just action. It only did enough to shock him. The door swung open behind him as she came in, running and screaming like a banshee. She ran towards the counter and stuck a ballpoint pen in the confused man’s throat without hesitation. Blood started spurting from the wound and he clasped both his hands around his throat while he made horrible gasping sounds. He drowned in his own blood soon afterwards while they were looking on in a dreamy state of detached amusement. Just before they walked out she carefully placed a crude pen drawing of a naked man and a women entwined in a sexual position on the counter. It seemed

 

Walking on the Sun                                                                                        Page 25

like they were drifting in space, their mouths open in what could be interpreted as expressions of either agony, or ecstasy. 

                                      Word Goal: 90 000 - Current Count: 10 049 -  Remaining Words: 79 951

PASSED THE 10 000 MARK!!!

Pledge: the next piece will be for a friend who would like to stay anonymous and who have helped me survive in the past. Ly Lo, the next bit is for you.

What next?

What happens next?

  They perform a strange ritual in the middle of nowhere.   They kidnap someone.   They have a threesome.

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Kazachstan Man
13/08/16 23:55:15
I heard once that Chuck Norris wears Kazachchstan Man pyjamas.
Kazachstan Man
13/08/16 23:55:15
I heard once that Chuck Norris wears Kazachchstan Man pyjamas.
Philippa Du Plessis
07/05/16 16:35:48
Loved your vlog about Africaburn!
Comment:
Thanks!!!
Ian Simons
01/09/15 10:20:18
Welcome to the wild world of Tulbagh...
Comment:
Thank you Sir Ian ;-)