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Written by Boipelo Seswane.

It was wild and cold outside. Lake stood at the kitchen window shivering even as the mug she clutched to her chest warmed her hands. The wind was bitter, and the cold raked her bones, sinking deeper even under the thin layers and blanket she had wrapped herself in. The window rattled at times, mocking her shivering. City lights glittered faintly in the distance, pushing through the blue-black night. The section to the west was in complete darkness; she imagined not a single soul stirred in those depths. A single neon church steeple hung in the dark west like Damocles’ sword.

It had been two hours since Lee had yelled from the door on his way out, “Lake! Heading down to the store, do you need anything?” She had poked her head around the door shaking her head. He had nodded and closed the door from where he stood in the corridor.

The window rattled.

Lake held the blanket closer to her.

The wind and rain had come out of nowhere, cutting through the sunlit kitchen, across the floor and walls like cloaked horsemen of the apocalypse riding out of the heavens.

Lake had been on the phone with her mother and watched the last, stronger rays of sunshine clinging to the floor as the curtains of darkness were drawn; hanging up the call with her mother, she called Lee but was greeted by the automated voicemail they had recorded together.

It was not exactly that they had recorded it together – Lee had been recording it and Lake had distracted him, causing them both to burst out laughing with Lee mid-laughter yelling, “Not available right now! Call back in five!” Where was he? He had not changed it. She called again.

Lake glanced over at the clock on the wall. She needed to settle back down and do some more work before dinner. It was not the time to be thinking of deadlines. She looked back at the window dotted with lights trapped in window ravines lashing outside.

It had been pelting down for an hour and with every howl of the wind, bucket after bucket of the wet unloaded onto the roof and streets. Lake thought she could hear the water rush down sidewalks catching up to each bucket unloaded before it in a tumultuous crash that pushed everything in its path out of the way.

A dream she had had years before rose to her mind. She was not sure why she was thinking about it, but it announced itself into the folds of her mind stealthily like the rain crashing outside.

In the dream, she was standing at the edge of a swamp. The water was dark and rich like coffee, yet smooth like chocolate of the highest quality. As she stood there, something began moving in the water. The water broke and a horse rose up from the depths. The horse was dark and smooth as if dipped in liquorice – high on its back, a cloaked rider. His cloak looked heavy, weighed down by the liquorice water, but it seemed to flow as if it were both light and heavy, flowing in some unfelt breeze. The cloaked figure and his horse rose out of the water to stand atop their mysterious liquorice body of water. They stared back at her through gleaming black eyes and did not move or speak – and then she awoke.

The doorbell rang, making Lake jump. She stood perfectly still as if moving, breathing – anything she did – would make it ring again, which it did. She screwed her face up in utter confusion. She was not expecting anyone – Lee would also not ring the bell; the person on the other side of the door rang it two more times.

Impatient,

Lake pressed the grey button and spoke into the system: “Hello, I wasn’t expecting any…” A voice carried through to her: “Hello, do you have food or clothes, please?” She stared at the system; the voice promptly repeated itself: “Hello, do you have food or clothes, please?” Lake mumbled something about not being able to help and released the grey button. She turned and leaned against the door. She went and sat back at the counter, contemplating calling Lee again.

“Prepare yourself for the worst,” she told herself. “Even if nothing happens, you will be hardened and will barely flinch when something bad happens. You will be okay. You will be able to carry on.”

The door moaned at the disturbance of the key sliding into the keyhole from the other side of the apartment. The key clicked twice and the door heaved open.

“Hey! I’m home. This deluge is ridiculous…”

Everything Lee was saying drowned out, muddled into nothing. She could hear him setting the keys in the key bowl – clank. Lake sat in the kitchen, fingers gripped tightly around her cup of tea, and simply cried.

THE AUTHOR

Boipelo Seswane is a Seoul-based South African artist. She is a teacher, performer/creator (actor, model, and painter), and a writer with experience in multiple facets of creativity, including writing, editing, theater, and film. Boipelo has always been interested in interrogating life through words and other forms of expression. She can be found on Instagram @bopzybee.