$Local Network Broadcast Publishing™ ($LNBP™)

Let the story tell itself J At a clearing in a forest, there are two hammocks hanging between the tall palm trees, and a bucket full of sand placed on the ground between them. There is also a large bonfire a little way off from the hammocks. One of the hammocks is occupied by a man, shabbily dressed in clothes which are far too large for him. He is dark, but it is indiscernible whether this is soot and dirt or not. He wears no shoes, and his feet are covered in layers of mud. His beard is unkempt, and growing wildly. It has plaits towards the ends, which run down all the way to his sternum. He also has on a colourful beanie, which has a browning white ball of fluff at its tip. He is rocking to and fro on his hammock, and whistling a tune. Still whistling, he slows the rocking to a gradual standstill and sits up to face the small crowd shuffling towards him. Whistling still, he takes wrapping leafs and a small bag with plants out from under his beanie and proceeds to

You're existing. Now start experiencing. Allow yourself to feel. Feel the breeze on the back of your neck. Feel his breathe flood your nostrils with warm words. Feel her hand against yours as she brushes past you. And when it happens; wake up. Wake up. Open your eyes and you will see infinity. But they don't tell you this. They tell you that this is crazy; that this isn't normal. They tell you to go to school. They tell you to graduate and get a job. They tell you to make money. And then they make sure you do what they say. They get you into debt. They keep you aspiring. They tell you that it's normal. But what if it's not? What if you knew that you could create a piece of art so magnificent that whatever robotesized version of you the future conjures up sees it - YOUR art - and weeps. THEY don't tell you these things. I am not crazy. I am just a man with a head full of words that make sense. These words aren't always true - everyone knows that b

It was drizzling quite hard, Bongani regarded as he stepped out of Charl's car, having drawn the short straw and been elected to go find help. Karma, he thought to himself as he made his way to the car that had just parked a close distance behind them. He could hear female voices. Somehow he doubted that they would have jumper cables, but he thought it best to ask just in case. He and his friends Nhlanhla, MJ and Charl had thought it would be a good idea to drive up to the Setttler's Monument and watch the lights erupt all over their small little town as dusk fell. It had been quite the beautiful end to a long week, he had thought, as Charl sat up and prepared to start his car. It wouldn't start. His car had broken down. Karma. Mickey never thought that she would ever feel this way again. She was happy. She wished to be no place else, she thought, as she stared down at Grahamstown from the car. She and her best friend Elise had decided that a trip to the Settler's