Sean J Halford

My body was still deciding whether it was going to keep breakfast down as Chris led me to the couch and motioned me to sit. We’d eaten my father’s not-too-terrible effort mostly in silence. He shuffled up next to me and put his head in his hands. ‘Just spill it already,’ I said. ‘I’ve had enough ups and downs the past few days. Why did you bail on me?' Chris winced a little. ‘Okay bru. Fair. That day… when Craig called for me, I really wanted to warn you but he went on this rant a

The hardest part was deceiving my father. When I told him Chris’s mom had come home, he seemed to buy it. I even faked conversations with Chris on the phone. And for the rest of the week, I would get up, shower and put on my school uniform and cycle through Newlands until my dad had left for work. After two days I’d had enough and pretended to have flu. * * * ‘How long do you think you’re going to be able to keep this up?’ Bella leaned against the wall, arms folded, sta

I'd just walked out of class for first break down the main corridor when I heard the giggles starting almost imperceptibly, like the first pebbles of an avalanche. They soon swelled into a wave of jeers and taunts. Everybody was staring and laughing at me. Girls tittered and boys booed. One of them shoved a phone in my face. There it was—a video of Chris embracing me in the changing rooms, and the obvious bulge in my trousers. A frenzy of other phone screens confirmed that it had gone viral.

I still wonder whose bright idea it was to hold the provincial gala that year in midwinter, even if it would take place in an indoor heated pool. Before this, however, was the prospect of the annual Polar Bear Club—a hangover from when St Frank’s was an all boys' school and seniors could boost their machismo by swimming two lengths in the outdoor pool, at sunrise, on the winter solstice. As a swim team member I had no option really but to take part, even though hypothermia was not exactly m

My brain has had a love affair with Virginia Woolf across the ages ever since I first read her novel To The Lighthouse aged 19... and I guess it shows 😅 I also remember reading all of The Hours (the novel about her life by Michael Cunningham) on a deserted beach north of Durban in one afternoon, some time in 2003... this is the same book that was made into the film which won Nicole Kidman an Oscar. It was also on this same beach that I also started reading Steinbeck's East of Eden during the summer of 1994, when I was just shy of 18. I know that all first novels are autobiographical, but I only realise now how many echoes are reverberating now!

The Cape Town Herald MORNING EDITION June 19th, 200– NATIONAL —page 5 Jonathan missing POLOKWANE—Staff at the Predator Reintroduction Project at the Fitzpatrick Nature Reserve are devastated that their star project, Jonathan the white lion, has gone missing. Rangers suspected as much when his radio-collar signal was found to be static a few days ago. Jonathan's reintroduction was seemingly progressing smoothly, but all tracking is now impossible after his collar was found—wit

April 2nd I was waiting for the 2nd because I don’t want to write significant things down on April Fool’s Day. Though Cal told me April 1 is the birthday of one of his favourite composers, Rachmaninov. Or is it Rachmaninoff? There are two spellings. Cal likes the "v" ending because that’s apparently correct transliteration (that word doesn’t even look real, man) from Russian, but the “ff” is what old man Sergei actually preferred. So, written like Smirnoff. Now that's Russian stuff tha

Well spotted... I wanted to highlight, subtly, the taboo aspect that would still be hanging over them, plus also the misconception that penetrative intercourse is the be-all and end-all of sex. SPOILER ALERT FOR UPCOMING PLOT POINTS related to the above, scroll down if you want... or not... * * * * In the original edition of the story, Cal explicitly mentions to the reader in his internal monologue that he and Chris did not consummate their relationship in this way for several years Whether this does happen in the course of the following months I still haven't decided. While I'm not afraid to write sex scenes, this book is not intended as erotica, if they get to it during the course of the story, it will very much be a subtle reveal and not 3D porn-o-rama. Finally, [not-so-dramatic ending spoiler ahead] this book was always intended to end happily for our two lads in terms of their relationship, as the title even alludes to. While I might put my protagonists through hell and drama, I wrote it as an affirmation that same-sex relationships can be just as happy and solid as heterosexual ones, so I sort of have a duty to have the erotic aspect realistic, messy, and at times frustrating. I have also written this update as a sort of answer to the much-celebrated novel "A Little Life" by Hanya Nahinagara, which I will warrant is beautiful literature, and has far more recognition and a following than STL ever will have. That book left a bitter taste in my mouth: it feeds into the narrative that gay relationships must be based on suffering and anguish. The protagonist goes through unbelievable torture to the point that it becomes (a) unbelievable and (b) egregious. I am tired of this trope. I believe in hope, and will always be an optimistic writer who prefers cinnamon rolls to gruel, even if I drop my characters into the depths of darkness at times.

Hey, I love the Boston Pops and so did my dad who was a classical musician. 1812 overture is always a showstopper. In the mid-2000s, as it is now, Cape Town has one chronically underfunded, but highly talented symphony orchestra and it has a loyal (but small) following... and tickets are cheap. It is one of the few remaining professional classical orchestras on the African continent. So Cal and Chris could probably have gotten affordable seats especially as students, or, more likely, would likely be getting their musical kicks from records and CDs. www.cpo.org.za

Hmmmmmm.... don't give me ideas now....

Sunday night, 22h38 ‘Now that I think of it...’ ‘What, bru?’ Chris was lying on his side, reclining, head in propped on his hand. ‘Don’t laugh, but…’ I shifted on the bed, feeling myself blush. ‘Spit it out, man.’ ‘It’s kind of hot, thinking of you and a girl. Just not Tricia.’ Chris raised an eyebrow and his eyes glinted. ‘Just watching us, or part of the action?’ ‘Maybe both? Oh god.’ I dived under my pillow. I heard him chuckle. We were dissecting

Ooh thanks for finding it. The bit that starts at around 6:52 (in your clip, not the one below) and explodes at 7:45 always makes my hair stand on end, and in a concert hall the effect is overwhelming.Rach suffered from lifelong mood issues and this symphony (along with the 2nd Piano Concerto) marked a triumphant return to composition after a severe bout of depression. He must absolutely be telling the story of overcoming the darkness here, given how the first movement starts extremely somber and gloomy and then very slowly it starts crawling out of the depths. I chose the final movement for the chapter because it's pure festival and fireworks... if you compare the opening of the 1st and 4th movements side by side they are complete opposites in mood. As to what Caleb might compose? He's more a performer / pianist, so it would be a piano piece, like Rachmaninov's 6th Moment Musical, it is just so unbelievably triumphant. Here's Nikolai Luganksy, one of the best Rach interpreters.

Quite right. Also, when you’re at the bottom of the pit it kind of feels morbidly safe, but what a gloomy existence. I had an uncle who had severe depression throughout his life and refused treatment, instead he clung to the doctrine of predestination that this was foreordained and refused to budge from his Calvinism. A gentle kind man whose spiritual addiction to piety robbed him of a happy (or at least happier) life. If I’m going to be scientifically cute… you could say Cal carries some sort of amplified genetic memory of guilt and that Chris’s influence is dampening this down. I’ve envisaged Cal as being too head up in the clouds, taking in too many big thoughts, and Chris is helping him see the ground beneath his feet and live in the present. Conversely Chris has been gaslit by society and his father to think he is only good if he embraces a rigidly stoic and empirical view of the world. Cal is helping him look up at the sky and see the big picture. Which might lead some people to think I basically wrote a love story about statistical regression to the mean 😂😂

Quite right. Also, when you’re at the bottom of the pit it kind of feels morbidly safe, but what a gloomy existence. I had an uncle who had severe depression throughout his life and refused treatment, instead he clung to the doctrine of predestination that this was foreordained and refused to budge from his Calvinism. A gentle kind man whose spiritual addiction to piety robbed him of a happy (or at least happier) life. If I’m going to be scientifically cute… you could say Cal carries some sort of amplified genetic memory of guilt and that Chris’s influence is dampening this down… or at least, I’ve written Cal as being too head up in the clouds, taking in too many big thoughts, and Chris is helping him see the ground beneath his feet—conversely Chris has been gaslit by society and his father to think he is only good if he embraces a rigidly stoic view of the world and Cal is helping him look up at the sky and see the big picture.

I sat through Mass, unable to pay attention. I didn’t attend Communion, and slipped out during the recessional hymn. The rain had stopped. The lanes of Newlands were quiet as I walked home. Water dripped from bare branches. The mountain was completely covered in fog. As I turned into my street I saw The Thing parked outside my house. Just as I tried to inch behind a tree, the headlights flashed. I heard him start the engine. The Jeep drove slowly towards me and stopped where