Little Red Riding Hood

The widow’s Jack Russell died of old age, just as her husband had done a few years earlier. She continued to live in her house alone, preferring to postpone the day when she would be forced to give up her independence.

Deon was a homeless man who had been in the area for many years. He was a work-shy drunkard with a criminal record for petty theft, but he was tolerated as a harmless nuisance who might be seen lying under a bush or heard shouting that he was hungry and demanding alms.

It was late afternoon when the widow went out the back to bring in some washing off the line. On returning to the house, she was annoyed to see Deon waiting for her at the kitchen door.

“I’ve got nothing for you today, Deon. Now go away.”

“But I’m hungry,” he said, patting his stomach to show how empty it was. “Just a little bread, Ouma.”

As she pushed past him, he tried to grab her arm.

“Don’t you touch me, you filthy rubbish!” she shouted, wrenching herself free. Then she slapped him hard in the face.

The stinging pain he felt triggered something in him and he cast about for a weapon. Catching sight of the brick that served as a door stop, he picked it up. It was a solid clay brick weighing more than 2 kilograms and when he shoved it in her face it smashed her glasses, her nose and other bones. She collapsed to her knees and before she could fall flat, he brought the brick down on the top of her grey head the way Raskolnikov did in Crime and Punishment. The heavy blow was enough to crack her skull, which resulted in massive bleeding and she was dead within minutes.

Deon explored the kitchen cupboards and the fridge and gorged himself on what he found. He also drank the contents of an almost full bottle of sherry. Feeling replete and more than a little drunk he staggered into the widow’s bedroom and got into her bed without removing his boots. He soon fell into a deep sleep.

The widow’s granddaughter drove a  recent-model little car that the old lady had helped her to buy. It was bright red. Twice or three times a week the granddaughter called in on her on the way to work to see if she was in need of anything. Because it was early the young woman let herself in with her own front door key.

“Grandma,” she called in a cheery voice. “It’s me. Are you awake?”

There was no reply, so she made her way to the bedroom. The curtains being drawn, the light was dim.

“Are you awake, Grandma?”

There was only the sound of snoring. How strange it was that Grandma had pulled the duvet right up over her head.

“Grandma!” she called again, more loudly this time. The snoring stopped.

Not far away there lived an old man who took his dog for a walk at the same time every morning. He kept the dog on a leash and carried a walking stick to ward off other dogs. As he passed the widow’s house, he heard the young woman’s scream.

“What the hell is going on there?” he asked the dog. “That red car belongs to the granddaughter. We had better take a look.”

The front door stood open and the sound of strife from within caused him to hurry inside and follow it to its source. Just as he had begun to suspect, a rape was under way.

“Stop that, you bastard!” he shouted, and whacked the rapist on the back of the head with his walking stick. At the same time he released the dog. Distracted from the urgent business he had been engaged in, Deon extricated himself and tried to get up. He was hampered by his trousers, which were down at his knees, and by the dog, which had grasped his forearm in its jaws. The old man first jabbed the fellow in one of his eyes with the end of his stick and then again hit him on the head. When both of these actions failed to subdue the struggling assailant the old man went in search of a heavier weapon.

In the kitchen he found the body of the widow, and lying next to her the brick.

“This should do the trick,” he said aloud and picked it up. Back in the bedroom he raised it on high and brought it down with as much force as he could muster, and this did indeed do the trick. The young woman, shaking and sobbing, was able to get to her feet and the dog was obliged to cut short its meal.

The old man was rewarded with a good close-up of shapely breasts in their prime before being hidden from view. For this he was grateful, not having set eyes on such youthful beauty since the time he visited a prostitute on his last business trip before he retired many years ago.

 

This is a cautionary tale illustrating the danger faced by well-meaning young women who are deluded into believing that their good deeds will somehow provide them with immunity from ill fate.

(From Fairy Tales and Nursery Rhymes)

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Memory Project: My Photograph

In this framed photograph of me I look to be about two years old. There were similarly sized pictures of Alan and Jean, and the three of us were hung in the lounge, first at 931 Grey Street in Gwelo, and then at 93 Berg Road., Fish Hoek.

As a boy Alan hated beetroot. One day my father noticed that I was looking a little flushed, even though I had been shot in black and white. Puzzled, he rose from the table for a closer inspection. When he lifted the frame away from the wall two slices of pickled beetroot fell to the floor. The pink stain faded over the years and now there is virtually no trace of my brother’s misdemeanour.

My mother said I was crying in front of the camera, which would explain the way my eyes are shining. I have never liked the look of that snivelling child.

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Welwitschia mirabilis

"Welwitschia mirabilis, the giant dwarf. This is not my field of speciality. My speciality is fossils, and I have spent my life studying the structure and evolution of extinct animals and plants, not living ones. Nevertheless, I cannot fail to be fascinated by Welwitschia mirabilis. Consider how it has been driven underground by the rigours of the desert climate." They dutifully regarded the specimen, the object they had trailed some two kilometres over the gravel plain to behold. Even photographs were taken. "The stem is more than a metre in diameter and stands about a metre above the ground. There will be two to three metres of stem below ground before the taproot begins. The crown, if we may use so regal a word, is flattened and saucer shaped, protruding from the ground like an inverted elephant's foot, the hard, dark brown wood cracked and warty and more resembling a clump of rock than a living tree. Please be so kind as to note the two semicircular grooves from which the leaves grow. Yes, these are leaves."

"Are you sure this isn't refuse blown inland from the harbour?" Henry felt obliged to show interest and ask a question. After all, the old boy was genuinely enthusiastic about his subject and wished to share his knowledge free of charge.

"No, no. This is positively identifiable as Welwitschia mirabilis. You see, the plant produces only two leaves throughout its life. They are persistent, continually growing out form the base, like tough leathery paste being squeezed from a great tube. The ends of the leaves are constantly blackened and worn away by the desert sun and searing winds and, in fact, the entire leaf blade becomes torn into long thong-like shreds, resulting in this tangled mass lying before us."

(Taken from The Life of Henry Fuckit. Read more here.)