Oranges and lemons …
THINGS move on apace at St Clements, the spot on the Berea where literati and various other genteel degenerates gather of a Monday evening for readings of poetry and prose, a glass or two of vino and some nosh.
The other night we had local raconteur Pat Smythe (aka Spyker Koekemoer) entertaining us with letters to Oom Schalk Lourens, in the Marico. Oom Schalk is, of course, the narrator in Herman Charles Bosman's wonderful stories, and Pat – who mimics all kinds of accent – has currently immersed himself in the platteland Afrikaner idiom and accent. His characters have names like Diktak Taljaard and Dikpens van Zyl and they do things like spike the drinks of the kerk diaken.
Pat in many ways continues where the late Patrick Mynhardt left off in his public readings from Bosman. Can it be long before he gets around to reading the actual Bosman stories as well? Nobody else seems to be doing it.
Meanwhile, in celebration of the winter solstice on June 21 – the shortest day of the year – St Clements have launched what they call National Short Story Day. People are invited to submit short stories, the winner to receive a case of Wildekrans Estate wine. Entries will be judged by poet Kobus Moolman.
But these stories have to be really short – the limit is 100 words. It's a new art form. Entries should be e-mailed in 14-point Times New Roman typeface to kwasuka1@mweb.co.za by June 13 and should show the author's name and the word count.
Some examples
THE COMPETITION is based on a similar one in England. Some examples of the 100-worder produced there:
· I am looking at the old-fashioned, gold trimmed card in my hand: an invitation to a girls' night in. I've thought long and hard about going; there will be gossip and food and drinks. And that's the trouble:
There'll be drinks. Cocktails, champagne, white wine, red wine, rosé.
By the bottle and by the glass. Phil doesn't like to smell drink when I come home. I'm going to the party, but I'll be sober. As usual.
I hear a taxi pulling up out front. I pick up my coat. I'm going. My name is Caroline and my husband is an alcoholic.
· She left the office with plenty of time to get there by six. She checked herself in the shop window and added a spring to her step. She counted the park benches lining the walkway as she passed: one, two, three.
On the fourth sat a portly man picking his nose while reading a newspaper. Her hand moved to her collar, grabbing swiftly.
The village clock chimed six times as she passed. He shuffled his paper aside and adjusted a flower in his lapel. She walked on, head down, letting a red carnation fall to the ground as she went.
· If I were to tell you the story of my life it would span the last ten minutes. They were spent meeting my wife, called Wendy, I think. She held up a mirror and showed me that I am John. I look old.
I see lines on my face I don't remember forming, experiences that never happened.
I touch Wendy's face and her eyes fill with the sadness of a broken heart. I feel it, too.
I have a wife but I never married her. We are old together but I was never young. Apparently I loved her very much.
· A man took trillions of cats and dogs to the moon to create a world record for animals on the moon. At first everything was fine and they all had plenty of room. As we all know, the moon starts off big and round, and then shrinks a little every night. You can see it happening in the sky.
As it shrank, they became more squashed and uncomfortable. The man wriggled and pushed a dog. All the animals began to push against one another and eventually fell off. The earth people were amazed to see it raining cats and dogs.
Tailpiece
A MAN FINDS finds his wife in bed with his friend. He draws a gun and shoots the friend dead.
Wife:"If you carry on like this, you'll lose all your friends."
Last word
A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines.
GRAHAM LINSCOTT
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