He felt the bright stinging first; harsh and beautiful and red, just as the warmth settled into his skin.

Alive. I’m still alive.

Desolate, the world came into view. His world; all that there ever will be. The teal curtains gently pulled away, the bare balcony and low ceiling…the dancing dust as he adjusted in the old worn sofa.

 The sofa he’s had since Uni. That sofa. 

He had his first kiss with Sophie here. He’d fallen in love on it too. His old worn sofa. His world.

The kitchen door swung open then, making him jump to sit up, his muscles protesting all the way; his back sore, his legs stiff-

“Uncle George! You’re awake!”

He could feel the silence cringe.

“Heey, Stevie.”

Stevie, a somewhat overweight twelve year old with a patch of grey hair right smack in the middle if his cranium, bounced into the sofa as well, so close that George got a nose full of Baby Care and stale bread.

“Uncle George, you’re finally awake.”

He groaned into his hands, rubbing his face till the skin felt hot. Stevie’s presence meant Angela and Robert’s presence. Angela, Robert and Stevie. In his flat.

“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

The child fell silent, his head bowed.

“Last night, grandma didn’t think you’d wake up. I heard them talking. She said you took too much this time around.”

George felt the shame like a log lodged in his throat. 

Everything became too quiet, as though time itself had paused to listen in.

“Look, Stevie, what you saw-” tears prickled the backs of his eyes “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” the child quipped with a smile. “Grandpa said you’re going to be fine now.”

George leaned back into the sofa, his body a weight he didn’t wish to carry.

“He did?”

“Yeah. He said that the only thing people really need is a reason to get up in the morning.” 

Stevie’s brow was knit into a deep furrow of thought, and in that moment, he looked just like Robert. Speaking Robert’s words.

Irritation suddenly scratched at George’s skull. “What if you don’t have a reason to get up in the morning?”

He was talking to his father. His patronizing father. And just like Robert, Stevie answered as flippantly; “Then you get one.”

George heard the words like a whip, snapping him out of his condensed childhood self, back into his flat. His ‘reasonably sized bachelor pad’, with the bare walls and barefoot child who never left the house without socks.

And the vacuum.

George was suddenly aware of the vacuum; the clang clang clang of nothing, that echoed the presence of only two.

“Stevie, where are your grandma and grandpa?”

Stevie, who had balled himself into a corner of the sofa as he flipped through his phone didn’t even bother to turn. “They left. Right before you woke up.” Flip flip flip. “There’s no bread, by the way.”


To the Nice Guys

So I took a break.

I’d already put up a post today, and with it the guilt of letting my writing hand go limp for over a week dissipated. I’m still a blogger!

Now onto social media; I’d start off with Facebook for the cute vacation pics that make me hate my life before drowning myself in Tumblr memes for a couple hundred hours #productivity.

But then I saw it. The headline that has stirred up all kinds of debate across the continent.

Karabo Mokoena: the 22yr old Uni student who was murdered by her boyfriend.

It all began down under, in South Africa, where the #MenAreTrash tag was used by women to share their abuse stories. 

It was a movement! 

Inspiring and supportive as it was… someone’s life was going to be saved, I could feel it.

But, as with all good things, someone just had to spoil it.

So once upon a time there was a twiddler, 

a thumb twiddler, 

who could never let anything be, 


not a neat room, tidy and clean, 

“it just has to be ruined!” the thumb twiddler cried

 “or I’d absolutely lose my mind”…and the conversation was changed.

The hashtag was no longer a safe space for women to reach out and encourage each other, but now a platform for the ” good guys exist too” pout fest. It was pretty glorious.

There were articles and super long posts all outlining male heroism and goodness towards women. 

As I said, pretty glorious.

And for once, I think, the Nice Guys won. They did it. Mission accomplished!

Now no one was talking (or at least being heard) about the femicide that plagued us. Or even the feminist uproar that was arising across the Continent as women hollered “enough!”, and the mutilation reversal surgeries in Kenya as women took back their power. Nothing.

 All that matters is the bruising of some random guy’s ego.

So remember that, ladies. The next time you clutch on to your racing heart as you walk home alone, or fret over your outfit as you’re catcalled on the streets…don’t complain! You might hurt someone’s feelings.

4 Comics that Perfectly sum up ‘Being a Woman’

When I was younger, I wanted (among other things) to be a Pussy Cat Doll. I practised dance moves, flipped my braids a lot and wore my skirts as short as my mum would let me (I went to boarding school so they were always pretty short).

I wanted to be a woman…wonderfully and gorgeously a woman. 

Now that I’m here though, I’ve learnt that womanhood is hardly like I’d pictured it.

Beauty breeds confidence-and so do over sized tee shirts…

Looks aren’t everything- there are bills, school assignments, and death inspired exercises all packed in a pretty little tote called Adulthood™.

Wake up everyday like you’re fighting for your life…

Because sometimes you are.

Love feels like a new pair of snug jeans…

Sex does too


You’re a black woman, you’re a skinny girl, and above all, you’re a human being…

Don’t get too hung up on the world’s labels. 

And finally

Your vagina does not make you a woman…

Chanting ‘Bloody Mary’three times in the dark does.


To check out more of Sarah Andersen’s comics, scoot on over to Amazon.

As I Lie

In a hidden world, nestled in all that’s good in my soul, blanketed by the flames of passion and fear and the thrill of the inevitable… There my heaven lies. 

An oasis, you see, a treasured piece of the earth burrowed in my bones…a wisp of the wind in my breath and blood in my hair…a song of skin and spit and reverend tears.

…the chant of dying stars beats in my chest, I say!…the chant of dying stars.


I don’t want to go anywhere today. Every single part of me seems to be in pain: my head hurts, my nose hurts, my friggin eyelids… Eyelids! I didn’t even know that part of me, like, worked.

Okay, I know that they work, obviously. (Chuckles nervously)

But can’t I just get away with flu-addled brain today? May be even get a break from adulting and stuff… Stay in my bed clothes *ahem, ripped tee shirt*, get a little soup action, pop in a few sob-teen movies…

If only the Internet granted wishes, eh?