Fiction and prose by established and emerging authors. Send your poetry or fiction to Chris Brunette at firstname.lastname@example.org to be considered for publication on LitNet.
Please note that work previously published in print or on any online media platform will not be considered for selection.
Second-hand bookstore, Cape TownNew writing 2015-11-17
"He wonders – how whole worlds can be buckled into suitcases or taped into wine cartons."
KnysnaNew writing 2015-11-06
"I’ve abandoned this poem/ to watch a kite weighted/ by a flower pot/ inhale and exhale"
Protest?New writing 2015-11-06
"the morning bulges/ with sparked green light"
Hani, Malema, Ramaphosa, ZumaNew writing 2015-11-06
An experimental poem in twelve haiku
Julius MalemaNew writing 2015-11-06
"Malema, my Noah’s Ark./ My Jonah’s Whale./ The Johannesburg people’s patriarch./ My country of ice cream."
The tale of the merboy and the motherNew writing 2015-10-30
"The merboy seemed heavier, his breathing was slow, steady,/ his wide eyes fixed skywards – snagged by a full moon."
DroughtNew writing 2015-10-30
"existence stifles, drawing thick breath/ heaven has stripped to its underwear"
23 October 2015, South AfricaNew writing 2015-10-27
"I remembered/ Bantu education./ Hector Pieterson./ Youth taking to the streets."
A moth, quiveringPoësie 2015-10-19
"Desperately/ He distorted his vision/ And read between edges/ His eyes began to bleed."
A silver fish swallowed my motherPoësie 2015-10-16
"White, like the fishermen’s cottages in her favourite tapestry of the Sardinian Sea."
What is preventing linguistic cross-pollination?Books and writers 2015-09-16
On UWC Creates and the lack of literary translations from and into other indigenous languages.
To see a psyche rentNew writing 2015-06-26
"a psyche which is rent ..."
These networksNew writing 2015-06-24
"Of our perception – the wheezing, the binary beating ..."
Muti waterNew writing 2015-05-06
"Every Monday morning she came walking up the dirt road from the black township, wearing her brightly coloured Basotho blanket around her shoulders and her orange-and-black headscarf."
The we field2014-09-17 The microbus goes again, and she is alone when she trudges along the mud-smeared path to the front door of the long building, a forty-year-old woman in a long brown skirt, long red pullover, and a woollen cap with flaps hanging over her ears.
Ons Klyntji - A call for contributions2014-05-13 Herewith a call for contributions of all creed, colour and cadence (and cadenza) toward a new edition of Ons Klyntji.
Lamb (five haiku)2014-04-17 Brilliant inner sea –
His cry glides across the moon.
This mother tongue comforts me.
Morning stage2014-04-17 The coach stopping,
the dust settling,
the dew evaporating
from the cropped verge
at the roadside.
Nadia2014-04-08 Nadia could not tell time yet. It was the stillness of the night that told her that it was already past midnight, to her a magical line between today and tomorrow. She was born at this hour, her mother always said. She was called Nadia because the stillness of the hour brought hope that the morning was approaching.
Cry, South Africa2014-04-08 "The day I saw him on television
I knew where the leaves of democracy had fallen."