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And the Female Voice of the Year Goes to… Short fiction by Abigail George

Most of all, out of anything in this world, I want to become a better poet, a better woman, kinder, a better mother-figure kind of like Mother Theresa, but with not so much edge. Odd that I feel maternal. Every day I look at the people around me. Not the people closest to me but the ones I admire a great deal. The world needs people who are kind, introspective, women who fall in love (and men, children must always fall in love with their mother, idolise their mother), and daughters who listen to their mothers, sons who don’t end up in rehab, voices, and the laughter of children.

I picture your voice. The sound of your voice in the world, in your world winter guest. All I have now after thirteen years is the spaces of forgetting, my father, and the pillars of our community. Light, light, the light in your eyes. One day it was there and then again just like that it was gone, like a moth in fog, people moving about in traffic caught up in the circus of their lives. I was very much attracted to earning your love like a child was to gaining the unconditional loyalty of a mother. Now all I think about is when relationships come to an end; the humiliation that one party suffers, scorn, rejection but also a great deal of disillusionment in the end. All I see is the cold lines of your anatomy framed by the sun and for years to come you would always be in my mind’s eye framed by the sun.

The writer is an artist in the inner sacred cycle, in that space, that land of giants, where even the immortals can be found. The greats like Rilke and Goethe who become immortalised forever by words that are like clay, that foist upon themselves the consistency of dry or wet. Plath, Lowell, Woolf, George Eliot. All were writers with their own style of writing, life rituals and their own passages to maturation. They lived in books, guarded, sheltered, protected under a silver lining, a blue sky, a secret sky, green grass. Revenge, hardness, those were things that they carried with them since childhood. It was the atrophied part of their soul. So they reached plateaus. Faces peer at me out of the picture. I don’t know them so I pretend I don’t see them. Words are like clay. Food was my comfort till the bitter end of every day. It annihilated me around every corner, every turn. When I don’t sleep or eat I’m thinking of writing. Sometimes I’m writing gingerly. Sometimes it just comes at me, pours out of me so pure and sometimes it is an agonising waiting game that just kills me to my core.

I write every word down as it comes to mind. Write every single word down as it comes. Don’t hesitate. Don’t stop to think, to question even if it sounds like a soliloquy. It feels like I’ve kept journals my whole life. Why do they say that there is nothing wrong with me? For all of my life, surrounded by well-meaning professionals; Doctors, nurses, therapists, counsellors, pastors, and church people. There messages of hope died on their lips when they saw however I decided to look like on a particular day. When I decided to look good I was almost perfect, but on bad days I could hardly structure sentences. I could barely function. I was so stressed out with feeling nothing like a mannequin in a store window.

I’m fourteen again sitting in English class behind Arundhati. We’re reading Athol Fugard’s Road to Mecca that I’ve fallen in love with. Arundhati does not eat lunch by herself. She does not sit in the library and do her homework during break times or when her class has a free period. Arundhati is the most beautiful person I have ever seen in my life, with wide eyes as wide as saucers. She has wide watery eyes. And hair that is thick, glossy and healthy and black as pitch, black as her eyes. Her skin glows. She’s clever but not too clever. I know she will go far in the world. I know she will leave her mark one day. And if it’s not on the world, then it will be on her children. I am not in love with Arundhati. I am in love with the heat and dust of New Bethesda. We are going on a school trip and then I will see Helen’s Magi. The Three Wise Men who were carved in wet stone and put in the sun to bake. I feel a kind of chemistry with Helen of New Bethesda. How can I dislike her when I feel I can relate with her loneliness, desperation, isolation, her emotional imbalance. Arundhati could never relate to any of those things. She is one of the most popular girls at my school.

When I am twenty-two I meet another Arundhati in the city that never sleeps but seems to wind down at four in the morning. She has legs that go up to here. Who wears kicking boots with stiletto heels and skinny jeans that seem to melt on her svelte skin but she who is also insecure, demanding, throws fierce tantrums in the workplace. I can see by a long way she is going to make her mark on every man and woman in this office space. While Arundhati embraces her winter guest, I go-a-hunting for rainbows as ancient as dust and merry-go-rounds of the galloping painted horses’ kinds daydreaming the work day away. One day I can’t stand him and the next I can’t wait to see him torn. Arundhati is his girlfriend. It’s another manic Monday. I know she will tell me everything. I know she can’t wait to tell me everything. Women just know these things.

I’m fourteen. We’re (my whole family) at the gateway to the funhouse. We’re standing on burning sea sand, water, ocean waves within reach, the centre of summer, the perfect identity of the nuclear family not yet wrecked, maverick, reckless, playing at adult games, playing at abandonment and neglect, walking away from responsibility, birthing a symphony of harmonic values. But there’s a sadness to the day. A kind of poverty as if we’ve lost our shot at the big time to host the sun, social cohesion or lost something never to be found again.

And so we forget that the sun is in our eyes and we all blink madly at our tears but we’re mad with joy. We’re one big happy family just like in photographs, or in the television programmes or films. Mother, daddy, younger brother, sisters. Look. We’re getting laughs. It’s effortless. A kind of easy living. This living is the best kind of life.

And so we forget the sun.

Who created the wounded in modern war?  Mad men in suits everyone. Did the Magi really come bearing gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh? On good days I would remain prayerful because I thought that was what the universe was communicating to me and my mother was the catalyst. If only I could reach her prideful wuthering heights. Her beauty, her pale skin, her aquiline features, her beautiful tennis legs, her roots, and her burning intelligence. She is contagion. She is carrion. She is cruel to be kind. ‘Thin. Thin. Thin. Why can’t you be thin like your sister?’ and then she screams with laughter. I go to my room and listen to Fiona Apple. I bang my door really loud so they all get the message. Films helped me. Taught me to escape, to remain pure, prayerful, not wanting for what you need because God was preparing you for what He deemed you could handle. There was some good in going to Sunday school and watching Robocop on a Saturday afternoon after putting your thirteen cents in the collection plate. Way back when you could still get videos. I wanted the happy ending come hell or high water. Those were the days when I thought all good people would ultimately get the happy ending they deserved.


At first a woman in the bed (in the bedroom) slept there speaking nothing on disability, on alcoholism, and her wounds. I imagine now that woman could have been my mother. It probably was my mother and all I saw growing up in that hell house mad house loud house was her loss and her reaction to that. Her ongoing loss in life and all that she had was a negative reaction to that source. I don’t know if my father could love her enough so that she could forget the childhood that came with her from Johannesburg alongside Winnie, Mandela, and the Rivonia Treason Trial. Alongside the suffering that came knocking on that door like a manic suffragette. There is always a man waiting to be found there somewhere there in the middle of a space (any place for that matter) or a sucker for every minute. Storage, fertility, sea of hands, to have none of that waiting for you in an apocalyptic future. It is good to know I did not have any of this knowledge at nine years of age. I was so bright, shiny and new. I loved my life. Every minute of it. I was surrounded by friends. I could eat anything. I could eat cake three times a day if I wanted to. I ate bacon with the rind, chicken skins. I would tear the chicken skins off the drumsticks and sticky barbecue wings smoky and tear at them with my teeth, chewing away at them happily. My mother never had the time of day for me. She was too busy with her own life, raising my brother and sister. Handing me over to my father because she couldn’t cope with me anymore. She had fallen in love with my brother like every woman does across the world when she gives birth to a boy. A younger version, newer version of her father or husband. She washed her hands off me. Anorexia Nervosa, alcoholism only happened in the movies way back then. They made addiction look so pretty. I only watched films on television. My laughter was real. It was made of a golden substance. Something so authentic. As a child I would sit on my father’s lap and watch the news without any understanding of it. And when I grew up, went to a school for higher learning, I believed in love like I believed in Oscar Michieux, Stanley Kubrick and Orson Welles and stream of consciousness writing, and the blended family. As I grew up, surveyed the rites, the passage that was open not to every woman, not to every girl. You see unlike everyone else, the other women in my father’s family I loved to read, to educate myself through self-learning. I even read textbooks which of course were just things to other people. My father was that most rare thing in my life. He was gold. He gave me everything. He was a principal at a high school in a sub economic area. Why is it always the vulnerable or loss that speaks to us? I waited forever for someone to sprinkle moon dust in my hair like in The Carpenter’s song. But no birds suddenly appeared when the object of any of my adolescent affections were near. Oh what a tragedy that played out to be over and over and over again. When I began to starve myself it began to affect, impact areas of my life that only in retrospect (decades later) I became aware of. It spoiled the child in me, that sweet, lovely inner child. It damaged me. It roughly stained my innocence through and through with a distorted view of my body image, my self-esteem and how other people saw me, the modern world’s opinion of me. I am not making this up (the deep pain I felt, having the sensibility of it, of starving my body of important nutrients, pouring over the ingredient list on the back of the creamy mayonnaise bottle or of any salad dressing, drowning wilting lettuce leaves in it in order to stay alive and perky, in order to stay just peachy). I am not saying these things to destroy any positive-minded thinking you might have on people who are disabled. Disability is not pretty. There’s nothing gorgeous about it. Survival is gorgeous. The line where brutality meets goodness. The line found in solitude. The source of solitude.

Your girl is beautiful man always in motion, tethered to the generous union of the stars. Years have passed. Their novelty has still now not yet worn completely off. And there’s been an awakening of sorts inside of me, inside of that festering internal me for so long. A kind of effortless pointless struggle (that seems pointless in the beginning, pointless juggling or acrobatics) but turns out to be a Darwinian revolution. Beauty queens every one sing Cyndi Lauper’s girls ‘just wanna have fun’. Smoke nestles gravely in the air near her face from this thinner version of me, less of everything. You got that right. You’re the expert who maps out the world, intimacy speeded up on her face, her physical body, her spiritual being. Everybody in the office knows you are sleeping with her.

My aunt was one of the most sophisticated and most beautiful women I had ever met, but she was also an alcoholic. Addiction ran in the family. Nobody spoke about it. It was as if we had our own secret society. On Sundays we would go to church. She was a wife. She had daughters. There are always lessons in the mysteries of life. If there are ancient lives under Botswana’s sky, then you can find rainbows everywhere, even in the Sudan. We would go to the Catholic Church in Mbabane, Swaziland. If only I had travelled more in those days when I was younger than I am now. Durban, South Africa was a few hours’ drive away as was Mozambique, another country, another world. There were wonderful museums and galleries, restaurants, little cafes were you could have coffee but teenagers only wanted to go out dancing those days over the weekends and watch terrible films with their friends were they could laugh at someone else’s misfortune. Nothing is set in stone. Everything is set in stone when it comes to a blood relative. You mourn for them when they’re making a terrible and life-altering mistake and say, ‘This too shall pass’. And when you lose them, when Death comes for them, when Eternity, eternal life comes for them or hell and damnation and you’re overwhelmed with grief and denial of losing them too soon, saying it was before their time then that too shall pass. Life is like that.


© Abigail George


Abigail George
Abigail George
South African Abigail George is a blogger, essayist, short story writer, screenwriter, novelist, and poet. She briefly studied film in Johannesburg. She has two film projects in development and is the recipient of two grants from the National Arts Council, one from the Centre for the Book and another from ECPACC. Her publishers are Tendai Rinos Mwanaka (Zimbabwe, Mwanaka Media and Publishing or Mmap), Xavier Hennekinne (Australia/New Zealand, Gazebo Books), and Thanos Kalamidas (Finland, Ovi). Her literary representative is Morten Rand. She is a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net nominated, and European Union Poetry Prize longlisted poet. Her poem “The Accident” was Identity Theory's Editor's Choice for Spring. Ink Sweat and Tears chose her poem “When light poured into me at the swimming pool” as a September Pick of the Month, and she recently made the shortlist of the Writing Ukraine Prize 2023. She is a poet/writer who believes in the transformative, restorative and healing powers of words. Her latest book is Letter To Petya Dubarova (Australia/New Zealand, Gazebo Books). Young Galaxies (a poetry book) was released in 2023 from Mmap and a memoir When Bad Mothers Happen is forthcoming. “Clarissa, Hector and Septimus Redefined” was recently published by Novelty Fiction in Kindle format.

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