What Pegman Saw – Mandela Dances

“What Pegman saw” is a weekly challenge based on Google Streetview. Using the location provided, you must write a piece of flash fiction of no more than 150 words. You can read the rules here. You can find today’s location on this page,  from where you can also get the Inlinkz code. This week’s prompt is Free State, South Africa.

WPS - Mandela Dances 200118

Mandela Dances

“I saw Mandela dance,” said Johnny Kwele, gesturing at the screen behind the bar. “I was there. Look at that joy! He was a god! Apartheid was over.” He sipped his scotch.

“I was a subsistence farmer in Free State. The goldmines paid better, but, well, you know.” I nodded. My recent retirement had taught me the value of freedom.

“One day an ANC boss came from Pretoria, a local boy. They were planning a dairy farm, he said. If we signed up, we’d have a stake, run it as a co-operative. They were going to fly us to India for training.”

He laughed, shook his head.

“Nothing happened. The money disappeared. This country makes a lot of money and none of it reaches the poor.”

“Your leaders are corrupt?”

Johnny glared.

“If you want to know where the money goes, ask your pension fund!”

The image of Mandela danced on.

Friday Fictioneers – Playing Hard Ball

Every week, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields (thank you, Rochelle!) hosts a flash fiction challenge, to write a complete story, based on a photoprompt, with a beginning, middle and end, in 100 words or less. Post it on your blog, and include the Photoprompt and Inlinkz (the blue frog) on your page. Link your story URL. Then the fun starts as you read other peoples’ stories and comment on them!

FF - Playing Hard Ball 180207

PHOTO PROMPT © JS Brand

Note

The International Commission against Impunity in Guatemala, or CICIG, is an international body charged with investigating and prosecuting serious crime in Guatemala. It is particularly concerned with rooting out corruption.

Playing Hard Ball

Lilian, immaculate in white blouse and cherry-red pencil skirt, sat waiting as Hilmar Benitez crossed the bar of the Hotel Henry Berrisford to join her.

She slid a business card across the table.

“’Personal Assistant to the Interior Minister’? I want the organ-grinder, not the monkey.”

“This is not a negotiation. Have you spoken to CICIG?”

“No. But without we reach an agreement, I certainly will.”

“That wouldn’t be wise.”

“I know enough to gaol the minister for life!”

Lilian rummaged in her handbag. There was a muffled report.

Hilmar slumped back, crimson trickling from the hole between his eyes.

Friday Fictioneers – The Old Way

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

The wall had protected the town for centuries. Each arched stone entrance had been defended by strong oak gates, a heavy iron portcullis and a dozen warriors. Towards those outside the city, the king and his council were implacable. Towards those inside they were placatory, rewarding their cronies with favours.

Now the ancient wall is almost lost among younger dwellings, and the king’s council has been devoured by local bureaucracy. But some things haven’t changed. The electrical cables to the mayor’s house should be protected by conduits. Instead, they are slowly fraying against his shutters.