April Writing Competition 2nd Place: Rebirth – Johann van Molendorff

Each month, SAIAA members are encouraged to partake in our Short Story Competition. April’s runner-up winner was Johann van Molendorff, a fantasy author from Gauteng. If writing short stories and connecting with other writers sounds like something you’d love to do, but you’re not a member of SAIAA, consider joining one of our Writing Room Chapters. It’s a space for all kinds of writers, whether you’re a poet, a journaler or simply someone who enjoys putting words on the page, this space is for you. It’s free to join!

I’m in darkness. A darkness that has probably never felt the touch of light. It’s not an oppressive, musty basement dark like the basement at my house on the farm. It’s comforting, a warm velvety blanket wrapped cozily around me. It feels as if I’m in a tunnel, a tunnel I recognize. I’ve been here before in my dreams. The walls and ceiling surrounding me are hidden but exude familiarity. My essence given form. Threads of memories touch me, soothing strands of corporeal blackness. A light at the end draws me closer as I live through various re-awakened memories. 

 I step out onto a narrow platform; four stone steps leading down to a white marble bridge about thirty feet in length. It covers a gorge filled with stars. Millions of them blink as if surprised to see me. It’s as if all the stars in all the galaxies gathered in the gorge, a black carpet embedded with uncountable diamonds. Beyond the bridge green plains stretch as far as the eye can see, more beautiful than even the fields at home, waiting to feed the cows, after the first summer rains. A breeze brushes the tops just enough to sway them slightly, breaking the warmth of the sun high overhead as it bathes the fields in golden light. I rub my eyes, gone are the white haze that has been a constant companion to my sight for the last eight years – slowly leading me to complete blindness. The beauty draws me forward. 

 I wince in anticipation of my replaced hip protesting as I lower myself onto the first step, but the pain doesn’t come. Touching my hip in surprise I noticed my hand for the first time. A young man’s hand. Not the old bony, arthritic hand covered with wrinkles and liver spots, betraying my eighty-two years of existence. These are the hands of the man that used to lift feed bales for the calves, cleaned the stalls and held my wife and children. Strong and bronzed by the many hours toiling in the sun. I turn and look back at the tunnel. I find no answers hidden within the mute darkness. 

The second step I take with firmer tread. No winces, no shooting pains, no cramps. Just the strong step of a man in his early thirties. My restored vision picks up movement on the plains heading towards the bridge. Still too far to identify, so I wait, my hunter’s eye trained and following the movement. A familiar bark drifts up from the parting grass and then I see him. Lean and muscled, black and brown patches shimmering in the sun, mouth open and tongue lolling from side to side as he sprints towards the bridge. My Doberman, Rex, I had to put him down when he got bitten by a rabid mongoose, but he had a good life. I buried him in the shade of his favorite tree where he used to lie watching the road winding up from the farm gates. 

 Running in his wake comes Rafter, the farm’s only cat. I rescued him from the rafters of the barn, a scraggly sad looking ginger. Rafter disappeared 9 years later. I read somewhere that cats go somewhere secluded to die. Following just behind runs more of my animals. Jake the Jack Russel, Fleabag the German Sheppard, Romulus the Border Collie and finally Snippet the Chihuahua. I shed a tear for each of them when I lost them. What an amazing dream this is. No pain, no old age, just joy and an abundance of love that enfolds me. 

 My boot crunches on the third step and I stop dead. Behind the wave of animals walks a woman holding the hand of a girl aged about 10. They are flanked by an older couple. I cannot stop the torrent of tears that burst from my very soul. Charlene, my wife, now in her thirties, walks shoulders back and proud, raven hair blowing in the breeze. Gone are the silver of age from those tresses. I stroked those silver strands on her deathbed so many years ago as she looked at me without recognition, her mind taken by Alzheimers. Suzy, my beautiful Suzy, my first born and first true love tries to run to me, but her mother holds her back. Suzy was only ten when she was diagnosed with an inoperable 

tumor in her brain. She died as a shadow of the sparkling child that ran around on the farm. Twisted and comatose, she gave way to death. 

 My legs threaten to collapse under me, and I lurch onto the fourth and last step as I recognize my mother and father next to them. Not the prisoners of old age and sickness I buried, but the vibrant couple in their forties I still longed for as I went through the old family photo albums when loss almost drove me mad. I stand frozen in place, my hand running through my thick brown hair. It feels strange to not feel the bald skin stretched thin underneath my fingertips. 

 “Your time is near, Cliff.” I never thought I would hear the melodic voice of my wife again. 

 “How?” I sob and laugh in unison. “This is but a dream.” 

 “No, my boy,” my father’s baritone voice drifts across the bridge. “We have been waiting for you. It is time to cross the bridge.” 

 I look back at the tunnel entrance. Everything around me suddenly blankets in silence. I hear the irregular beep, beep, beep of a machine. Soft sobs from my daughter Jenny. The beep, beep, beep changes to a long steady beeeeeeeeeeep, the soft sobs to a heart wrenching wail. 

 “Time of death 13 April 2026, 17:26,” the voice of a nurse says unemotionally. 

 The tunnel disappears as if it never existed. 

 I step onto the bridge which flashes from white to a multitude of rainbow colors. 

 I finally came home.