a collection of micro-fiction by Liesl Jobson
([email]jobson [at] freemail [dot] absa [dot] co [dot] za[/email])


At 19, the gold band on my child-thin hand was a ligature binding an artery of joy.

A gangrenous bomb ticked under my skin as the sharp metal chafed my swelling flesh.

Before the surgeon (sterilized in righteousness) removed my finger I visited the jeweler — and smiled as he cut off instead my wedding ring.

After a Fight

Defeated, I speed read books, thrash through webzines, hum mournfully and dive into debt.

When I’m spent and broke, my conqueror says, “Write”. The echo returns unbidden and involuntary, “Right!”

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