Antjie Somers #Afrikaans #glipsie

“Pasop! Antjie Somers sal jou vang!” het my ma se mense altyd gesê.

Maar toe was ek nog ’n klein klimeid met stokkerige bene en blou knipoë, wat na al die grootemense gestaar het as hulle so laat in die nag bangmaakstories gepraat het.

Nou is die fluweel donkerte my mantel en ek loop in die skadus waar die naguil roep. Vrees het geen houvas op my nie. My oë weerkaats met smaraggroen skynsel in die helder maanlig en my tande is vlymskerp noudat jou bloed in my are vloei.

Ek is glad nie meer bang vir Antjie Somers nie.

#drabble Headstones

A metallic rasp draws my gaze upward. A pied crow lurches in the pine’s boughs, its beady eyes glittering, small chips of onyx set among plush feathers.

All details are sharp where I stand among the granite headstones. The markers are polished to a high sheen and I can’t help but wonder who rests here, beyond caring. Some sort of barrier is pierced and the sense of vertigo makes me stumble. What must it be to just not be, to not know anymore?

It’s then that I realise these stones are laid not for the dead but for the living.