LinkVanyali's New Writeups

Hex River Valley (place)

2012-06-03T18:55:17Z

Legend of the Hex River Valley

The Hex River Valley is a place of inestimable beauty. The floor of the valley is a rich carpet of meadow and vineyard, spotted every few thousand meters by a house with high, curved gables and dark imbuia shutters and, more often than not, a lapa with a thick thatched roof. On all four sides of the valley are distant peaks so blue they seem to fade into the sky, except in winter when a thick layer of snow is laid on top. The Hex River itself runs swift and icy and over the ages has sliced the Matroosberge into sharp points that pierce the sky.

I lived in a house in the Valley, a great house with flagged stone floors and a carved staircase and a proper hearth. My Oom Frans visited often, and he was a great legend-seeker, as he used to say. After supper, we would sit at his feet near the great fire and wait patiently while he filled his pipe and…

valenki (thing)

2012-03-25T19:26:42Z

Valenki are Russian footwear. Traditionally made from wool felt, the word valenok means 'made by felting'. They're not water-resistant (they're just wool after all), and are therefore worn under galoshes to prevent wetness and to preserve the soles. They can be soled with leather or some other durable material, to ensure a longer life, and there are valenki that have rubber soles, for light use in wet conditions.

Valenki are traditionally grey, white, black, brown, tan and myriad other natural hues, but recent commercial valenki are also available in a variety of other colours like red, green, blue, yellow etcetera. Valenki became widespread in use near the middle of the 19th century by industrial mass-manufacture. Before this, due to the labour-intensive process of felting wool, valenki were rather expensive.Â

The urban popularity of valenki has declined recently, due to the association of the shoes with the rustic lifestyle, but they are still worn by many…

A Fly For The Mantis (fiction)

2012-03-19T10:38:28Z

In the chirping evening silence, the warm air from the summer day kind of hung in the house like a spider web hangs in the musty attic: and thatâs how the day felt, musty and warm and stifling. Katydids and bullfrogs called from outside, and the bougainvillea at the window bloomed gently in the evening twilight.

Strangely, bugs seem to be attracted to the house lights and the residual heat of the day and on this particular evening, the bug du jour (du soiree?) was a praying mantis.

Small but malevolent, the razor-bladed mantis whirred in on translucent wings and gently rested on the wall just above my desk. Probably hoping for a meal, this misadventuring alien in the world of concrete and glass was (after I gathered up the courage to make my move) hastily detained and set aside in a jar I had lying nearby. I donât like insects, and I therefore purposefully avoided looking at it: it regarded me coolly with its bug eyes and continued clearing the remains of a past kill from…

Gardening (fiction)

2010-08-16T17:43:31Z

I grew up outside. During my childhood, I could never be kept indoors. It just felt wrong not having the sky above my head and the wind in my face. I loved the outdoors. Today was no different from any other. Early in the morning there was a refreshing rainshower that left the ground moist and soft, and I was having great fun wriggling my toes in under the soil, and watching the myriad bugs scuttle away in fear.

My life isn't all sunshine and butterflies, though. Recently there have be rumours of outsiders, some call them people, who are coming and taking us away. We never hear from those they take again. My father says that these rumours are true, and we must remain extra vigilant so that we don't get taken. My mother, on the other hand, whom I am constantly attached to, says that my father is just exaggerating, and that we are so valuable to the strangers that they would never dream of taking us away. Mom's a bit full of herself sometimes.

But the day came that my…

Old Smokey (thing)

2009-01-30T22:01:11Z

On Top of Old Smokey, a song. A well-known ballad of the United States. It was made popular in a recording done by The Weavers in 1951. Old Smokey is most probably a mountain high up in the Ozarks or the central Appalachians, as the tune bears marks of the Scottish and Irish settlers in that region. The lyrics:

On top of Old Smokey
All covered with snow,
I lost my true lover
For courting too slow.

Now, courting is a pleasure
And parting is grief,
And a false-hearted lover
Is worse than a thief.

A thief will just rob you
And take what you have,
But a false-hearted lover
Will lead you to the grave.

And the grave will decay you
And turn you to dust;
Not one girl in a hundred
A poor boy can trust.

They'll hug you and kiss you
And tell you more lies
Than the crossties on the railroad
Or stars in the sky.

So, come all…