You think me a fool for being so naïve, For being an innocent in a world of sinners, For trusting others to my own detriment. You consider me gullible and easily duped, Disparage my nature, belittle my beliefs, Look condescendingly upon me with disdain. Arrogance strips your vision of the truth. Hubris deafens you except to your own braying. Conceit steers you cow-like down twisted paths. Good hearts can conquer bad souls. The potential for good is an irrefutable Ever-present ocean of possibility. For Mountains of iniquity can be annihilated By a single, heartfelt noble act of virtue.

Wayne started beating me five months into our marriage. Initially, it was simply an unexpected slap or a punch to the kidney. It was so unpredictable and out of character that I deemed it my fault. I reasoned that I must have brought it on myself, and that I deserved it. That naïve perspective changed when the abuse became far more regular and intense. After two further months of humiliating, soul-wrecking beatings, I finally walked out. I left with only the clothes on my back and firm resolve burning in my heart. I moved in with a friend, but I knew I needed help. “Speak to Mr. Eden,” Sinead advised me. “You know he's always been kind-hearted to us and helps everybody without hesitation,” she added persuasively. And that's how I ended up outside his office the next morning, clutching my college bag and courage firmly to my breast. Mr. Eden was the College Counselor, and one of the most unselfish men I had ever met. Not a single student had ever been turned away by this gentle, unassuming man. And I was about to ask him to not just go the extra mile, but to also go out on a limb for me. How classically clichéd. “Marina, come inside,” Mr. Eden invited me the minute he saw me. “Have a seat. How's life been treating you?” he asked innocently, but his tone and the innocuous question triggered a flood of sobs. I was embarrassed; I chastised myself for making such a spectacle of myself. Mr. Eden instantly took charge, soothing me with encouraging words and a soft tone. He offered me a bottle of water, which I gratefully accepted. I confided completely in him. I was surprised by the first words he said, but I shouldn't have been. “We need to get you into a women's shelter today. I know a place near the college. I will take you there after I've called them to give them a heads up, all right?” As if that wasn't enough, this amazing man then spread the word – with my permission – on the college WhatsApp group that a student needed donations of clothes, toiletries, food; the works. The response was overwhelming! Mr. Eden took me to the Saartje Baartman Women's Shelter, and they agreed to house me as well as try to resolve the problems Wayne and I were having by giving us marriage counselling. All absolutely free of charge! I received so many donations of barely-worn clothes, brand new underwear, toiletries and even money that I could give some of the things to Sinead to thank her for having granted me a safe haven when I had needed it. And the best thing of all? Wayne is a changed man. The couples therapy had opened his eyes, even bringing him to the point where he apologized tearfully to me for ever having lifted a hand to me. “You are a treasure, Marina,” Wayne said to me on the first night I returned home. He was holding me gently in his arms while he spoke in a voice shaking with emotion. “I nearly lost the most precious gift I had ever received, but I will never again be this careless.” “If not for Mr. Eden, both of us would have lost each other,” I said and smiled, feeling the heavy burdens lift off my shoulders like fog burned off by the warmth of a rising sun.

In the middle of a verdant meadow lies a lake, Tranquil, serene; as crystal clear as a mirror. A breeze upon the pristine waters tiny ripples make, Sending praises aloft as the wavelets quietly quiver. A majestic oak proudly spreads its branches wide, Stands tall, strong, a welcome home for squirrels swift. Grateful they are for the leaves in which to hide. Prayers of love playful zephyrs joyously to heaven lift. Fluffy, small sparrows on the ground busily dart, Searching with keen gazes for strewn seeds. Each holds infallible faith in a tiny beating heart: Devoted to the Creator are all their humble deeds. Many-hued flowers sway and dance in utter delight, Their scent given freely, their colours a rainbow boon. I raise my hands in supplication, tears blind my sight. God's majesty and incomparable mercy cause me to swoon.

Belac gazed down the rocky lane, Stretching ahead like a crooked finger. At the very bend he spotted his bane: Arrogantly, she had the audacity to linger. “I'll await you, Hunter, beyond this hill, In the Valley of Ahlane we shall meet. Long have I yearned for this rude kill, Prepare your creator very soon to greet!” Spurring on his kalitso, Belac gave chase! Garnia vanished in a sorcerous flash, Her laughter taunting the Hunter's race. He thirsted vengefully with her to clash. The verdant valley was tranquil, asleep, When Belac, the Hunter of Truth, entered it. A low mist covered the grass knee-high deep, Clearly he heard a bass, rhythmic drum beat. The sorceress stood waiting, hand on sword, “Come embrace death!” delighted she was to crow. Belac smiled, swiftly unfurled his leather cord. Hurled he himself mightily at his mortal foe. Brushing aside her sword's descending stroke, The Hunter looped leather cord 'round her neck. Flipped he over her head, causing her to choke. Belac furiously asked, “Who now is the wreck?” Exhausted and dismayed, the Hunter of Truth Departed the hidden valley, his soul splintered. Vanquished his foe, he might have, forsooth; Yet, his legacy he'd tarnished, reputation tattered … kalitso – beast of burden

This journey of self-publishing my books is fraught with disappointment, deep concerns, disabling doubts and disdain from friends, family and colleagues. Rejection letters are like poison darts that slowly erode my confidence, gnaw away at my belief that I have a gift, cause me to question whether it is worth the pursuit. However, if I do not believe in my own skill, in my innate talent to weave enchanting stories and compose heart-touching poetry, then how can I expect others to accept that I am a writer? The joy and pure delight at having my own book in my hands easily outweigh the mountains of rejection letters. Seeing something I've created solely with my imagination and passion turning into a physical reality is a natural high. It is an achievement that never loses its luster or appeal. It is a legacy, no matter that it is a self-published book. It will remain for posterity long, long after my bleached bones have crumbled to grainy dust.