Head first into the Benguella


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The Hospice bookshop where I work, is going forward in strides. Getting organized better and better is no longer wishful thinking. It is happening. Volunteers are making bookshelves which will enable us to put more books from the store room out on the shelves. New donations of great books by great writers are coming in all the time, begging to be sold so that Hospice can make money to take care of the suffering and dying. So, come on, good people of the Boland, come and buy our fabulous books and make space for more books.

For the purpose of filling Hospice coffers, I do my part. I put my books up for sale a the normal listed price. I offer a discount  – on a signed copy of any one of my books – to anyone who is willing to answer a question about a book. The discounted amount then goes to Hospice as a donation. After all, they allow me to promote my books in their shop.

After hours I try to fit in a little writing. “Seagull’s Prey” is progressing slowly, very slowly. Stephany had to flee after seeing the face of the one who murdered the senior partner in the plastic surgery practice where she is a junior partner. To make things worse, she grabbed the wrong bag in the confusion, thinking it was her medical bag, but when she opened it later, a nasty surprise awaited her.

When she thought things could not get worse, a dog jumped on her, sending hear head first into the icy waters of the Benguella sea current. Contrary to her initial shock and anger at the negligence of the dog’s owner, the incident was Divine intervention. Ettienne proved to be the help she needed to get out of the mess she was in.

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The full length novel titled “The god of these Times” is coming along just as slowly, but surely. Here is an excerpt:

The three men watched in awe as the three dimensional hologram appeared before them. The image of the man was so lifelike, they almost believed they could touch it and smell the aftershave. The image was hovering six inches above the floor, then moving higher, growing bigger and back to its normal size again. This happened every time he wanted to stress a point in the speech he was making.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, as if they were given a choice.

“Sorry, where you are, it is still morning, so good morning to you.  My dear friends, I want you to know how much I value you.  Without you, I will not be able to reach my goals.  Without you my hands are tied.  See?”  Smiling, he held out is virtual hands to them to demonstrate how helpless he is as a mere image, and how much he needed their physical bodies to do what he wanted done.

“So let’s get down to business,” he continued with a stern face.

“Cassius, I read your report on religious matters in the middle-east.  I am well pleased at what you have achieved there.  Intensify the onslaught and spread it towards the north-east.  Pakistan and Afghanistan have not experienced the full intensity of our wrath.

Mercu, Walt, Tyco, your work is also good.  However, there is room for improvement.  Especially you, Tyco.  I expect you to deliver better results in Africa.  You said something about India.  Forget India for now.  They are growing in finances and technology, but leave them for another couple of years.  There will always be the castes that will keep them from breaking through our barriers.  Africa is different.  Make sure you crash the strongest economy in Africa, and do it soon.

Walt, you keep on entertaining.”  Again the image showed that devilish smile he often put on his face when he had evil in mind.

“Keep on giving the hungry wolves what they want.  The naughtier, the better.  Mercu will see to it, that the world learns all about it through his world-wide network of IT and communication systems.

An excerpt form a follow up titled “Puppets Dance”:

The dark side of life is shadows over the past.  The dark side of life is having no hope for the future.  The dark side of life is living with bad things on your conscience.  A bad conscience is like a hair in your mouth.  It is uncomfortable, you are constantly aware of it and if you don’t do something about it, eventually it will nauseate you, you will throw up, most likely in public and everyone will know your secrets.

 

That is how it was for Billy Fenton.  He knew he had done something wrong, but tried to ignore the fact.  He believed he would get away with it and nobody will know.  There might be consequences, but no one will suspect his involvement.  Until that day.

An excerpt from another follow up, titled “Zone Celebration:

Anton Joubert disappeared into the men’s room at the O R Tambo International airport. Ten minutes later a man came out. He had a mustache, curly brown hair and a slight limp in his step. Jonathan Smith was on his way to Heathrow. Having arrived there he went through the usual formalities, than made a phone call:

“Hello Lindie. Jammer ek bel nou eers.” Hi Lindie, sorry I’m only calling now.

“Anton! Als reg Ek’s net bly jy het veilig daar aangekom. Het jy heelnag gery?” Anton! It’s OK. I’m just glad you’ve arrived safely. Did you drive through the night?

“No, I was tired. I stopped over at Matjiesfontein. I arrived in Cape Town an hour ago”. They talked for a while, then Anton ended the call. He found a taxi that took him to his hotel in the center of London, the conversation with his wife in Johannesburg already forgotten.

This is as much as I will reveal right now. Next time, some more on the Hospice bookshop. Check it out on Facebook:

https://web.facebook.com/StelHospiceShop/?ref=br_tf

Also visit my page:

https://web.facebook.com/magdelwrites/?ref=bookmarks

 

Thank you for visiting. Please call again.

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