Since my reading at L’endroit perdu in Bern Switzerland last week, I’m all out of copies. There won’t be any reprints. To everyone international and intercontinental showing interest in the suburb Woodstock and THE CROONING OF CAPE TOWN, thank you.
The short story bundle TO THOSE OF YOU ILLITERATE is 100% free of charge and can be read here: www.burnedshoulders.com/PROJECTS.html
Sander
The bundle To those of you illiterate can be read and downloaded for free at http://burnedshoulders.com/PROJECTS.html
Orders for The crooning of cape town can be placed at info@burnedshoulders.com
..by Sander Timmermans is currently in the make. It might take its position as ‘TO THOSE OF YOU ILLITERATE’. Few connections with Cape Town are drawn. Release date to be confirmed.
PS: creativity on layout and design is turned up a full notch. It’s going to be an interesting read.
There was a fog entering my cul-de-sac. Unknowingly, I was on the second floor living a nonchalant smile, not realising that the seagulls had turned silent. Thick mists opened my gate and ate the begonias and rosemary before it came crawling in through my front door’s mailbox. A soft hum it made while doing so, and the wood had fought and lost. My steps, once red and subtly spotted by well-selected linoleum, turned black to gray and then to sleep.
Now I sit behind my desk while moist fumes wrap around me like blankets. The dog’s curls moult while the chandelier rattles. Under my feet the carpet’s edges curl up like plastic lips roasting in a fireplace. Smooth now are the walls while before they were blistered, crumbly and curved. For nights I kept myself awake pondering, moulding expectations on how this all would end. Like poe’s pendulum coming down on me I believed it would overtake my life. But it doesn’t and I’m not scared, for against the dumbstruck I’ve been vaccinated on long nights. Such as the garden flowers that surrounded me all those years, the objects I keep losing, they bounce right off of my chest. Now the walls are turning gray all of a sudden, and the nails are falling out. Furniture shifts, the pens and shelves have vanished. These things they are leaving me without a struggle of mind. They never reached the heart. All I had before was me.
© Sander Timmermans
Now available.
€ 11 / ZAR 100 / $ 15 / £ 10 / CHF 15 / NOK 80.
[…] I from now on call it the Woodstockian Rut. It’s tautological in a way because Woodstock as I know it is mostly in its own rut but has a natural drive of getting out with hardly any effort. But these roads stare at me when I walk through, the houses have looks on their faces, looks of knowing, knowing every move I made behind their walls, the women swapped and the minds lost, they knew it all, their peeled painted faces laughing and screaming at me as I walk past, their rusty gates aggressively slamming and biting at me […] The park up the road with the thousand messages and the grass that doesn’t grow is home to the escaping minds that refuse to swim and splash in the chemical waves that lap the shores of these beaten and broken villages.
So this night the fireman tried to calm the girl who got run over by some hit n runner. She just lay there freaking out and soaking the concrete with tears and rolling like she was on fire. WHAT A BASTARD we thought, yet we kind of enjoyed the scene because this was our neighbourhood and we didn’t need a tv because of it. ©Timmermans/Hodges
