back to their meeting at the water tower earlier that day. Marietjie had stolen two cigarettes from her mother’s new boyfriend. The creepy one who was always so eager to touch her. And they were sitting on a large boulder. Smoking.
A tall man climbed from the interior of the car. And with surreptitious quiet began following the young boy.
Despite trying his best not to cough on the acrid smoke, Kobus couldn’t help watching Marietjie with slavish admiration. She had the coolest way of smoking. Just like an adult. She would throw her head back and bring the cigarette slowly to her lips. With the cigarette slightly tilted she would take an exaggerated drag. Eyelids fluttering shut. And then. With delicious intent. Slowly opening her eyes. She would release the smoke in the air. Forming her lips into a perfect ‘O’. Kobus had an idea she was doing it all for his sake. But with a girl like Marietjie you could never be sure. Whatever the case, it was so, so .... what was the word? Well, whatever it was. It always made Kobus feel a tiny explosion in the pit of his stomach. Wow. Marietjie was soooooo cool.
Undetected. With dark stealth. The man moved closer to Kobus.
With the cigarette in his right hand. Trying his level best to be cool ... and adult. Kobus had moved closer to her. ‘Hey, Marietjie,’ he said. ‘You smell nice.’ She had smiled at him with those droopy eyes of her. Trying to go in for the kill, he had continued. ‘So, what is it?’
In a way that only Marietjie could pull off she smelled her armpits. Then said, ‘Cat pee.’
The two of them had rolled about on the cluster of boulders, laughing hysterically. Oh man. Marietjie was so funny.
The Van Jaarsveld residence was now fast approaching on his right hand side. And Kobus steeled himself for the inevitable meeting with his mom. If only –
And then.
Kobus heard a twig crack under a heavy weight. And smelled a sharp chemical odour. And before he could turn around. Before he knew what was happening. A sordid darkness had enveloped his world. And his childhood was forever at an end.
Hell.
Yeah.
Five
Little butterflies.
Little tweetie birds.
Cute little kitty kats . With pink whiskers and purple stripes.
With a good lacquer, the correct application of crackle polish and a little Swarovski here and there. Well...
Sigh .
It felt so good to be an artist. A real artist. Not like that little Pep Stores tart, Lorraine. With her kômmin designs straight out of the advertorial pages of Huisgenoot .
Mitzi Croukamp held her left hand aloft. And twirled her fingers this way and that. So that the afternoon light could illuminate and enliven the leopard prints on her nails.
Leopards were all the rage in Hollywood. Magda at the salon said at least two of the Kardashians (God, how many were there?) were sporting leopard manis this summer.
Yes, she thought, surveying the alternating black and tan lines on her nails, it sure did feel good to know you were a real artist. She had every reason to think that she had finally found her destiny. This was real. Nothing like that Bedazzler fiasco a few years ago. Even Magda said she had real potential to go ‘pro’.
Sighing with self-satisfaction, Mitzi re-positioned her chair behind her desk and eyed the wall clock for the hundredth time, wondering when this dull day would finally see its behind.
God . It had been one of the most boring days ever. Right up there with a church sermon on Easter Friday. Or one of those National Geographic shows. Oh well. What could you do, she thought, consoling herself. Even the great artists like Ina Myburgh had to have a day job at one stage or other. And for now, she supposed, a dump like the Hope Gazette would do.
In the office behind her, Gerhard Volkers (son of the deceased Johan and Susan Volkers) farted. This was followed by a grunt. Then he vigorously moved his swivel chair to and fro behind his desk, making the old chair creak and groan under his
A tall man climbed from the interior of the car. And with surreptitious quiet began following the young boy.
Despite trying his best not to cough on the acrid smoke, Kobus couldn’t help watching Marietjie with slavish admiration. She had the coolest way of smoking. Just like an adult. She would throw her head back and bring the cigarette slowly to her lips. With the cigarette slightly tilted she would take an exaggerated drag. Eyelids fluttering shut. And then. With delicious intent. Slowly opening her eyes. She would release the smoke in the air. Forming her lips into a perfect ‘O’. Kobus had an idea she was doing it all for his sake. But with a girl like Marietjie you could never be sure. Whatever the case, it was so, so .... what was the word? Well, whatever it was. It always made Kobus feel a tiny explosion in the pit of his stomach. Wow. Marietjie was soooooo cool.
Undetected. With dark stealth. The man moved closer to Kobus.
With the cigarette in his right hand. Trying his level best to be cool ... and adult. Kobus had moved closer to her. ‘Hey, Marietjie,’ he said. ‘You smell nice.’ She had smiled at him with those droopy eyes of her. Trying to go in for the kill, he had continued. ‘So, what is it?’
In a way that only Marietjie could pull off she smelled her armpits. Then said, ‘Cat pee.’
The two of them had rolled about on the cluster of boulders, laughing hysterically. Oh man. Marietjie was so funny.
The Van Jaarsveld residence was now fast approaching on his right hand side. And Kobus steeled himself for the inevitable meeting with his mom. If only –
And then.
Kobus heard a twig crack under a heavy weight. And smelled a sharp chemical odour. And before he could turn around. Before he knew what was happening. A sordid darkness had enveloped his world. And his childhood was forever at an end.
Hell.
Yeah.
Five
Little butterflies.
Little tweetie birds.
Cute little kitty kats . With pink whiskers and purple stripes.
With a good lacquer, the correct application of crackle polish and a little Swarovski here and there. Well...
Sigh .
It felt so good to be an artist. A real artist. Not like that little Pep Stores tart, Lorraine. With her kômmin designs straight out of the advertorial pages of Huisgenoot .
Mitzi Croukamp held her left hand aloft. And twirled her fingers this way and that. So that the afternoon light could illuminate and enliven the leopard prints on her nails.
Leopards were all the rage in Hollywood. Magda at the salon said at least two of the Kardashians (God, how many were there?) were sporting leopard manis this summer.
Yes, she thought, surveying the alternating black and tan lines on her nails, it sure did feel good to know you were a real artist. She had every reason to think that she had finally found her destiny. This was real. Nothing like that Bedazzler fiasco a few years ago. Even Magda said she had real potential to go ‘pro’.
Sighing with self-satisfaction, Mitzi re-positioned her chair behind her desk and eyed the wall clock for the hundredth time, wondering when this dull day would finally see its behind.
God . It had been one of the most boring days ever. Right up there with a church sermon on Easter Friday. Or one of those National Geographic shows. Oh well. What could you do, she thought, consoling herself. Even the great artists like Ina Myburgh had to have a day job at one stage or other. And for now, she supposed, a dump like the Hope Gazette would do.
In the office behind her, Gerhard Volkers (son of the deceased Johan and Susan Volkers) farted. This was followed by a grunt. Then he vigorously moved his swivel chair to and fro behind his desk, making the old chair creak and groan under his
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