Jacques Visser was a fourth generation leech-man. For more than 110 years, the Vissers had harvested leeches from the swamps of St. Lucia, and had developed a reputation amongst the South African medical community for quality bloodletting. Unfortunately, when it came time for Jacques to take over the family enterprise, bloodletting was on its way out. Jacques agonized over the falling sales and was seriously considering calling it a day when his wife, Melinda, came to him with a suggestion: why not diversify their operation? Melinda’s big idea was to sell the leeches to Twilight fans, marketing it to them as “Mini-Edwards” and “the vampire experience without the inconvenient bloodlust.” Jacques, with over a century of proud and honest leeching blood running through his veins, was, of course, reluctant to reduce the family business to this chicanery but he knew that Melinda was right: they were dead-broke and these Twilight fans were suckers ripe for the picking.
First published on Six Sentences. Visit it HERE.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Shaggy
Shaggy
Don't miss the funniest show at this year's Grahamstown National Arts Festival.
Six shaggy stories with Zanne Solomon and Tristan Jacobs.
Written by Anton Krueger and Pravasan Pillay
Directed by Roshnee Guptar
See it live in Grahamstown, 20-27 June 2010 - check poster for details.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Max Moodley: 0011
James was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He asphyxiated 3 minutes after his birth.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Victoria Williams: 0053
Went over to Sara’s house, not on purpose, but not exactly by accident either. Initially she wouldn’t let me in, so I had to stand on the doorstep and exaggerate some personal problems until she let her guard down. Then I spent the afternoon clutching at her waist and weeping into her navel.
I said, “You look shocked and appalled. Don’t be shocked and appalled.”
She said, “I’m not shocked.”
I said, “You look shocked and appalled. Don’t be shocked and appalled.”
She said, “I’m not shocked.”
Friday, May 21, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Shaggy
Shaggy
Don't miss the funniest show at this year's Grahamstown National Arts Festival.
Six shaggy stories with Zanne Solomon and Tristan Jacobs.
Written by Anton Krueger and Pravasan Pillay
Directed by Roshnee Guptar
See it live in Grahamstown, 20-27 June 2010 - check poster for details.
Max Moodley: 0010
The Taj Mahal mausoleum was built by Mughal emperor Shah Jahan in memory of his wife, Mumtaz Mahal. This, of course, was in the days before engineers had worked out the physics of assembling a flower bouquet.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Victoria Williams: 0052
My doctor – and I only have the one now – has put me back on my pills, albeit at a smaller dosage than before, and I’m hoping that soon all my ex-friends will start speaking to me again. As it is, I only have my doctor to talk to, and he just says things like, “For Christ’s sake Vickie – I gave you the Samaritans’ number! I’m hanging up!”*
Whenever I see him, a couple of things happen. One such thing is that I’m immediately compelled to confess everything to him the second he enters the room. The other thing is that I sometimes cover my wrists in bandages and tell him I’ve cut them myself, since this is one of the best ways I know to keep someone’s attention. And I can sort of tell by the way he tears off my handiwork, and yells at my totally unscarred skin that this is the kind of prank he’s pulled himself many years ago. I mean he just never falls for it, and I think when he looks at me, he can see all his faux suicide notes and his weary ex-girlfriends listening to the answer phone messages and all the times when eventually they just stopped calling back. And I just want to tell him not to worry, because in my opinion that was not a misspent youth.
* He also says things like, “When you were born did they announce ‘It’s a girl!’ immediately, or did it take them a few days to decide?”
Whenever I see him, a couple of things happen. One such thing is that I’m immediately compelled to confess everything to him the second he enters the room. The other thing is that I sometimes cover my wrists in bandages and tell him I’ve cut them myself, since this is one of the best ways I know to keep someone’s attention. And I can sort of tell by the way he tears off my handiwork, and yells at my totally unscarred skin that this is the kind of prank he’s pulled himself many years ago. I mean he just never falls for it, and I think when he looks at me, he can see all his faux suicide notes and his weary ex-girlfriends listening to the answer phone messages and all the times when eventually they just stopped calling back. And I just want to tell him not to worry, because in my opinion that was not a misspent youth.
* He also says things like, “When you were born did they announce ‘It’s a girl!’ immediately, or did it take them a few days to decide?”
Monday, May 17, 2010
Friday, May 14, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Victoria Williams: 0051
Going In, Coming Out
Frosty is bent over her typewriter weeping. Not just weeping now that I think about it. She’s screaming. She’s choking on something that she wants to say, and it’s shaking her head apart from her body. She already has scars from the last time she did this. The typewriter is covered in bloody fingerprints. So is the paper she’s typing on. It’s been there for 23 years, but she’s doing it. Doing it slowly. She’s writing her novel, one word at a time. Its title is, The Waistcoat. It is dedicated to Randall Riese. We are all players in the first act of his life. All she wants to do is produce a manuscript – something fit to wipe his nose. It is not designed for public consumption, and yet I try in vain to arrange meetings for her with literary agents. She won’t go. She won’t go in protest at the way they treated her brother. She beats her head against the keys, wailing. The printout from this reads, “GJRUDFRFJKFJ,FSDM,.” I know at this point that I am in the presence of a true genius. Sometimes, late at night, I hear distant music, and that is how I know… This lump that’s stuck in her somewhere… What good is genius when it won’t come out?
Frosty is bent over her typewriter weeping. Not just weeping now that I think about it. She’s screaming. She’s choking on something that she wants to say, and it’s shaking her head apart from her body. She already has scars from the last time she did this. The typewriter is covered in bloody fingerprints. So is the paper she’s typing on. It’s been there for 23 years, but she’s doing it. Doing it slowly. She’s writing her novel, one word at a time. Its title is, The Waistcoat. It is dedicated to Randall Riese. We are all players in the first act of his life. All she wants to do is produce a manuscript – something fit to wipe his nose. It is not designed for public consumption, and yet I try in vain to arrange meetings for her with literary agents. She won’t go. She won’t go in protest at the way they treated her brother. She beats her head against the keys, wailing. The printout from this reads, “GJRUDFRFJKFJ,FSDM,.” I know at this point that I am in the presence of a true genius. Sometimes, late at night, I hear distant music, and that is how I know… This lump that’s stuck in her somewhere… What good is genius when it won’t come out?
Monday, May 10, 2010
Friday, May 7, 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Victoria Williams: 0050
Just to say that everybody is safe and well and home again. The old ways are being resumed; I’ve already lost my hand-washing obsession – now that they’re back there’s no point denying it - the germs will spread.
Monday, May 3, 2010
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