Forthcoming work

Hello anybody who stumbles across this,

I have not posted any other stories due to the burden that is my English Honours thesis. If all goes accordingly to plan, this will no longer be the case in twenty-three days. After that, it should not be too long until I have something ready to post.

It will be rather longer than 'The Scarlet Paintbrush', so I may have to post it in installments.

I look forward to the feedback that anyone may give once it is up.

S.D.H

P.s. I implore anyone to comment upon 'The Scarlet Paintbrush', if they have any feedback. Thank you.

The Scarlet Paintbrush

This is the story of my bench. It is not anyone else’s, only mine. Some people think it is theirs but they are wrong. Please do not forget that it is mine. You would probably do well not to forget that.

It was seven thirty-eight on a Wednesday evening. The air was cooling but still warm enough to be wearing only the necessary garments. The hot, sweltering summer, the alleged scientists at the Bureau had predicted, had not shown any signs of occurring, for the third year in a row. But after another cold, dry winter the midday sun could leave one’s bare skin somewhat singed, if exposed for any length of time.

On this particular night, my sister cooked dinner; it tasted of malice, jealousy and resentment. As I stood at the sink, partaking in the menial task of washing the dishes from the abhorrently unsatisfying meal, the odour of its preparation still clung to every object in the confined kitchen, even myself. The strong scent of the roasted chicken, undoubtedly filled with steroids or other growth hormones, still crept from the open oven; the aroma of garden salads tossed, presumably unwashed and swathed with a concoction of insecticides, was emanating from the ugly salad bowl; and the overpowering stench of the garlic cloves, which she insisted were vital for flavour and health, formed an allied force intent on storming my nose; we both knew they were used merely to infuriate me.

The washing up was tedious yet unproblematic; it took all of fifteen minutes, a length of time I would never get back. As I looked out the kitchen window, my person took on a more serene demeanour, resulting from the soft hues created by the setting sun, which continually splashed my face. The sun was roughly an hour from disappearing beyond the horizon for another night. I pondered whether to take advantage of this picturesque twilight. I often endeavoured to make the small promenade down to Westlands Beach to watch Apollo’s golden chariot retire for another night. I could not stand to be incarcerated in this jail of antipathy for much longer, thus I decided to sit upon my bench until nightly darkness enveloped this Wednesday.